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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096046">Promises of a Sacrificial Lamb</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyeyedjacklyn/pseuds/mistyeyedjacklyn'>mistyeyedjacklyn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Game of Survival [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Supernatural, The Hunger Games (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Castiel and Dean Winchester First Meet, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:14:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>148,705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyeyedjacklyn/pseuds/mistyeyedjacklyn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Katniss Everdeen never volunteers for the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games and the Second Rebellion is nothing but a hopeless wish for the people of Panem, the sick and twisted annual killing event keeps returning to take away their young ones for the Capitol’s entertainment.</p><p>It’s the year of the Hundredth Hunger Games, and the fourth Quarter Quell.  This year, as a harsh reminder of the men—both young and old—who served in the First Rebellion against the Capitol, only males will be reaped for the hundredth anniversary of the Hunger Games.</p><p>While this comes as a relief for the women of Panem, it does not bode well for young Dean Winchester, a poor farm boy from District 9 who is only able to supply his struggling family with food through his hard work and voluntary tesserae.  With his name in the reaping ball twenty-five times at age sixteen and the chances of being reaped doubled due to the circumstances of the Quarter Quell, things are not looking up for him and his family.</p><p>And the odds are most certainly not in his favor.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Game of Survival [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! Thank you all for joining me on this adventure! I think it's going to be a blast! Before we begin, though, there are some warnings I have to go over.</p><p>Since this is a Hunger Games crossover, there is, of course, going to be violence, blood, and death. Other possibly triggering things include brief thoughts/mentions of suicide and some traumatic flashbacks.</p><p>Updates will be on Saturdays and Wednesdays!</p><p>Anyway, I think that covers it! I hope you enjoy this story as much as I do!</p><p>2021 Update - For anyone reading or rereading this, I made a <a href="https://castielmybeeloved.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> a while back! If you have any interest in following along with me on that beloved hellsite, then I'll see you there &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sweltering sun beats down on my back.  I can feel the sweat rolling over my hot skin.  There isn’t a single cloud in the cerulean sky, nor is there any shade for me to cool off under.  It has to be one of the hottest days of the year, yet here I am, snapping off wheat seed heads with my scratched up hands like my life depends on it.</p><p>I suppose if you look at it with an interpretative and analytical eye, it kind of does.</p><p>The wheat stalks billow in the warm breeze that sweeps over the vast field.  I listen to them rustle, relish the peaceful serenity of the field that stretches farther than the eye can see.  It’s quiet out here today.  Usually the fields are filled with others like me, snapping seed heads and piling them in tattered burlap sacks to haul back to the granary, but as far as I can tell, it’s just me, maybe a few other wandering souls concealed by the stalks.  I wonder where everyone is.</p><p>Probably taking the day off to prepare for what’s happening tomorrow.  I can’t lie and say I didn’t consider it, too, but I can’t afford to skip a day of work.  I can’t afford to miss filling my quota and not receiving my much-needed payment of food and money.</p><p>Maybe that’s part of the reason why I’m still out here on the most brutally scorching day I’ve ever experienced.  Not just to make sure I get my payment, but to take my mind off the upcoming events.  Strolling through the wheat fields, absentmindedly snapping off their seed heads like I’m on autopilot, never fails to calm me down and soothe my frenzied thoughts.  Something about being in a vast, sprawling field where there’s nothing to do but breathe in the fresh air, feel the sun on your skin, and run your fingers through the silky wheat stalks is quite therapeutic.  There are few things to truly love about living in District 9, but this is one of them, without a doubt.</p><p>It’s not that I absolutely despise living in District 9.  It has its perks, like the beauty of the rolling hills and open fields, for example.  It’s just difficult and scary at times, what with always having to fear whether or not you’re going to get to eat every day.  As a kid, I always wondered why our people are constantly struggling to get enough food if we’re the main source of grains for the entirety of Panem and the Capitol.  Turns out, we don’t get to keep a lot of the grains we harvest.  It just gets shipped straight to the Capitol.  I think that’s where my abhorrence for that bizarre, far-off place began.</p><p>That, along with when I was old enough to understand the disgusting horrors of the Hunger Games.</p><p>I try not to think too much about it.  It makes me sick every year.  How can those people in the Capitol stand to let children die like that, let alone <em> enjoy </em> it and <em> bet </em>on who’s going to win?  It’s morally wrong on every single spectrum I can come up with.  Capitol citizens aren’t humans.  They’re a completely different breed, and it’s a kind I would never want to meet in a dark alley.</p><p>I bet they’re ecstatic about the reaping tomorrow.</p><p>Another balmy breeze blows over the land.  I draw a deep breath in a desperate attempt to rid myself of those terrifying thoughts.  I’ve survived the reapings for four years now, even with taking tesserae, but it’s impossible to predict the future.  You never know whose name they’re going to pull out of those glass balls.</p><p>Trying my best to focus on the tranquility of the wheat field, I toss a handful of seed heads into the burlap sack at my feet.  It’s starting to get full.  Just a few more rows of stalks, and I can call it quits for today.  I’ve probably sweat out every last bit of water in my aching body by now.</p><p>In the quiet stillness of the field, it’s difficult to miss the sound of approaching footsteps.  I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.</p><p>“You’re looking a little sweaty there, Dean.  Need some help?”</p><p>Charlie Bradbury is definitely what one would call a unique girl.  Vibrant ginger hair and skin so pale she practically glows in the sunlight.  An attitude so incredibly strong and fierce that no one questioned her when she marched up to the granary owner at age twelve and asked for a job in the fields, which is usually dominated by boys.  A sense of humor so dry and witty that she can make anyone laugh at the drop of a hat.  A love for her friends so extreme that I’ve never had to doubt her loyalty, her care for me, and I can only hope that I’ve given her that same trust.</p><p>I still remember the first day I met her.  It was out here in these fields, a day or two after she’d essentially harassed the granary owner into letting her work.  She was set on harvesting her first set of seed heads by herself but didn’t quite know where to snap them off.  I happened to be in the area, so I offered to show her the best place to snap them.  After a short lesson, she’d already gotten the hang of it.  I was about to leave when she called out to me and asked if I wanted to be friends.  I barely knew anything about her, of course, other than her bravery and tenacity, but she seemed like an interesting person.  Who was I to deny her harmless request?</p><p>I knew it was the start of an amazing friendship from her parting words to me that day.  They still echo in my head, and they always make me smile.</p><p>“I’m totally okay with being friends with you,”  she said with her head held high, “but I don’t like boys, so don’t get any ideas.”</p><p>She’s like a sister to me, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.</p><p>I can’t help but smile as she ambles over to me, rolling up the sleeves of her flannel and swatting her hair out of her face.  “I could use an extra hand, sure.”</p><p>“Lucky for you, I brought an extra bag.”  A proud glimmer shining in her eyes, Charlie unrolls another burlap sack and opens it up.  “Man, where would you be without me, Winchester?”</p><p>“Probably keeled over somewhere in the field.”</p><p>We share a laugh, one that rings around the open field and into the endless blue sky.  That’s one of the many things I love about Charlie.  Almost every conversation ends with a lighthearted chuckle.  She seems to bring joy everywhere she goes.</p><p>The two of us continue down the row of wheat stalks collecting seed heads as the breeze picks up and the sun’s intensity bears down on us.  It’s getting hotter by the minute, but with someone here to keep me company, the heat doesn’t seem quite as insufferable.</p><p>“Do you know where everyone is today?”  I ask as she snaps off a handful and tosses them into my burlap sack.  I’m fairly certain I know the answer to the question, but I’m curious to see if she has an opinion.</p><p>As I expected, Charlie heaves a sigh.  “A lot of them are worried about the reaping tomorrow, so they stayed home to spend time with their families,”  she says.  “I’m kind of surprised you didn’t.”</p><p>“Trust me, I thought about it,”  I tell her, “but I couldn’t risk not getting food for today.  We’ve been running low for a few weeks now.”</p><p>“I see.  Always gotta be the savior, don’t you, Dean?”</p><p>To an outsider, her words might seem harsh, but I’ve known Charlie for years.  We poke fun at each other all the time, and seeing her flash me a smirk as we near the end of the row only solidifies that layer of our friendship.</p><p>“I have to be,”  I say.  “Who else in my family is capable of spending hours in this boiling field?”</p><p>I have a younger brother—his name is Sam, and he’s my favorite person in the world next to Charlie—but he’s only twelve.  I don’t want him slaving away in these fields for at least another year or two.  He’s too delicate, and I don’t want him scratching himself up or getting heatstroke or anything else that can happen to us field workers.  Not yet.</p><p>Some might say I’m too protective of him, but in the state of the world we live in, it’s hard not to be.</p><p>My mother has never worked a day in the fields in her life and probably never will.  She made and sold jewelry when she was younger, and although she still does when the materials are handy, it’s not always enough to support us and put food on the table.  Materials and metals are nearly impossible to come by, and even if she manages to sell a ring here or a necklace there, it’s so spread out that the money is gone long before she makes another sale.</p><p>My father used to be one of the most well-respected field workers.  He even shared ownership with one of the biggest granaries in the district and earned way more money than I could possibly dream of, but that was before the accident.  I still remember where the sun was in the sky, what kinds of birds were singing outside our house, when the mayor knocked on the door and told us what happened.</p><p>While climbing to the top of the granary to take stock of the pile of grains inside, my father had tripped and fallen off the ladder, but not before getting his legs caught in the rungs.  He survived, thankfully, but he still can’t walk properly without using a cane to this day.  He hasn’t been able to work in the fields since.</p><p>“Yeah, you’re probably right,”  Charlie says with a shrug.  “You do an amazing job, though, Dean.  I hope you know that.”</p><p>It’s not always like Charlie to get sentimental, but I appreciate it nonetheless.  It’s reassuring to hear that you’re doing the right thing, and that you’re doing it well, too.  I don’t really have a choice in the matter considering my family’s circumstances, but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.  I like my work, and it promises them food.  What more could I possibly ask for?</p><p>“Speaking of, how’s Sam holding up?”  Charlie asks as we start down the next row of wheat stalks.  Her voice has dropped, and I know why.</p><p>It’s a universally known fact that everyone in Panem between the ages of twelve and eighteen is eligible for the Hunger Games.  Sam just turned twelve.  His name is going to be in that ball tomorrow.  Just once, but once is too many times for my liking, especially with how this year’s event is going to be carried out.</p><p>Every twenty-five years, there’s a special kind of Hunger Games called a Quarter Quell.  This year is the hundredth anniversary of the Hunger Games, meaning it’s the fourth Quarter Quell.  Each Quarter Quell is separated from the rest of the regular years by a different rule or method of reaping or arena in general.  In the past, twice as many tributes have been reaped from each district, or the people in the districts voted on who to send to the arena.</p><p>This year, much to my horror, only males are going to be reaped for the special hundredth anniversary of the dreaded Hunger Games.</p><p>Meaning that my little brother Sam, whose name is only in there once, has two chances to get reaped for that vile fight to the death.  Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn.</p><p>I, since I’m sixteen and have been taking tesserae for years, will have my name in there twenty-five times.  It might as well be fifty.</p><p>Charlie picks up on my apprehension and discomfort in a heartbeat.  I can never hide anything from her.  “This whole Quarter Quell thing sucks,”  she says.  “I feel really bad for you guys.  Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help?”</p><p>“What can you do?”  My burlap sack has reached its breaking point, so we start piling the seed heads into Charlie’s.  “It’s out of our control.  You’re doing everything you can right now, and that’s keeping me distracted, even if it’s just for a few minutes.”</p><p>Charlie falls silent, her usual cheery expression vanishing without a trace.  “How many times?”  she finally asks, her voice so soft it’s nearly carried away by the summery breeze.</p><p>When I tell her twenty-five, she drops her burlap sack and slips her arms around my abdomen, squeezing me so tightly I can barely breathe.  I hold her close, my hands suddenly trembling and my heart pounding against my ribs.  Not even the warmth and solace of her embrace can calm the anxious thoughts rampaging around inside my head.</p><p>“I’m sorry,”  she murmurs against my chest.  “I wish you and Sam didn’t have to go through this.  It’s horrible.”</p><p><em> I wish too, Charlie.  I wish too</em>.</p><p>Drawing an unsteady breath, she lets me go and tries her hardest to put on an encouraging smile.  “Well, at least they’re allowing two victors if they’re both from the same district now, right?”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess,”  I say with a shrug, but not even that can soothe my nerves.</p><p>Ten years ago—I think, but I was still a bit too young to remember for sure—following the death of President Snow, the next president proposed a new rule to spice up the Hunger Games.  We thought it was going to be something terrible, but as it turned out, she just wanted to allow two victors to win if they came from the same district.  Something about supporting new alliances and persuading teamwork and whatnot.  I don’t mind it—it’s definitely better than having to kill someone from your home—but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still forced to participate in a televised fight to the death.  It just slightly increases your chances of winning, and I mean ever so slightly.</p><p>I can’t even remember the last time District 9 had a victor, let alone two from the same Games.</p><p>Charlie and I are about halfway through the row.  The main building where we store our harvested grains is steadily coming into view.</p><p>“You’re gonna be in the square tomorrow, right?”  I ask her.  Even though she won’t be lumped together with the rest of us unlucky boys, I’ll still feel better if I know she’s in the area, just for comfort and support.</p><p>“Of course,”  she replies.  “You really think I’d abandon you and my favorite little adopted brother on the most stressful day of the year?  Not my style, Winchester.  That’s just cold.”</p><p>Thankfully, our lighthearted conversation returns.  Some of the tension built up in my heavy chest ebbs away as we share another chuckle.</p><p>We finish the rest of the row in silence.  I try to focus on the serenity of the open field, taking in the vast landscape and the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze that ripples the wheat stalks.  It’s surely the last few moments of peace I’ll get for the next twenty-four hours, at least.  As soon as I get home, Sam’s bound to be panicking about his first day at the reaping tomorrow, and I’ll have to do everything I can to ease his distress while somehow battling my own.</p><p>I have a feeling there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that I’ll get any sleep whatsoever tonight.</p><p>Charlie flashes me a sympathetic, reassuring smile as we approach the main storage building.  “It’ll be okay,”  she says, rubbing my arm as the collector comes forward to check our gatherings.</p><p>I sincerely hope she’s right about that.</p><p>Since there weren’t many people working in the fields today, Charlie and I receive extra for braving the intense heat and bringing in a couple of hefty burlap sacks full of seed heads.  It isn’t much, just a few small loaves of bread and a ration ticket to trade in the market for a generous serving of lamb stew and a can of beans, but we’ll take anything we can get.</p><p>As the collector takes our burlap sacks away to the storage room and Charlie heads home after giving me another tight hug, I feel a pair of eyes looking at me, boring into the side of my face.  Turning around, I see a dark-haired boy my age watching me from the edge of the field, not paying one bit of attention to the wheat stalk he’s trying to harvest.  The moment our gazes meet, however, he instantly drops his head and returns his focus back to the seed heads.</p><p>I’ve seen him around the fields, I think, but I’ve never spoken to him, nor have I ever heard him talk.  He mostly just keeps to himself, doing his job and then going home without uttering a single word to any of his fellow workers all day.  I wonder why.  He seems like a nice person.</p><p>But as I tuck my ration ticket in my pocket and turn to leave the fields for the day, I can’t shake the feeling of his bright blue eyes following me as I go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Carrying a steaming pot of stew and a small bag full of bread and a can of beans all the way from the market back to my home is a task in itself.  I managed to cool off while I was trading in my ticket, but by the time I approach the back door, I’m sweating buckets again.  I hope we have enough spare water for me to rinse off with.  I feel disgusting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annie and Clementine, our two beautiful black and white cows that my father bought when he was still in charge of the granary, raise their heads as I draw near.  They don’t have the largest or most luxurious pen, but we gave them as much room as they needed.  Besides, they’re not very fussy, and they absolutely adore Sam.  Maybe he can make his living off milking cows instead of liquefying under the sun in the wheat fields.  He already sells some of their milk in the market, but we do end up keeping most of it for ourselves.  We need it right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Annie,”  I greet as the smaller of the two cows ambles over to the edge of the pen.  She sticks her nose over the fence to sniff at the steaming pot, but I hold it away from her.  “No lamb stew for you, girl.  I don’t think you’d like the taste of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if she understood my words, Annie snorts and steps back further into the pen, joining Clementine at the trough that needs to be refilled.  Maybe Sam will want to do that job today.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I barely have a chance to open the door and drop off the food in the dim kitchen before I hear a frantic pitter pattering of footsteps across the creaky old floors.  I turn around just in time for my little brother’s tiny arms to fling themselves around my stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean!  You’re back!”  Sam exclaims, his voice muffled by my damp shirt.  He doesn’t seem to mind, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t help but laugh at his deathlike grip.  He’s strong when he wants to be.  “I am,”  I say with a smile as I tousle his disheveled hair, “and I brought back some goodies.  Wanna see?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The eagerness that shines in his wide eyes is brighter than the scorching sun outside, and it only increases when he sees the pot of lamb stew.  It’s been a while since we’ve had hot, fresh stew; the smell of it alone is enough to make my mouth water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I watch carefully as he offers to cut up the loaves of bread and get them ready for supper.  He doesn’t seem too distraught about tomorrow, at least not that I can tell on the outside.  He’s smiling, laughing, asking me how I managed to get so much extra food, acting like tomorrow isn’t even going affect us at all.  Either he’s doing an excellent job of hiding it, or he genuinely isn’t afraid of the possibility of something going horribly wrong at the reaping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever the case, I can’t complain.  I was concerned he was going to be worried sick, which he may still be, but I’ll take what I can get right now.  If we can eat a peaceful supper without fretting too much about tomorrow’s events, I’ll be happy enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My mother wanders into the kitchen next, closely followed by my father whose cane threatens to put a hole in the floorboards with every heavy, lopsided step he takes.  They seem pleased with what I’ve brought home and thank me for my efforts, but I know the looks on their faces.  They’re just as afraid and paranoid as I am.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t even imagine what it must be like to have children in this world, where every year for seven years they’re practically waiting in line like livestock to a slaughterhouse.  Safe most years, but there’s always a chance for their name to get called, and then it’s over, just like that.  How do my parents and all the other parents across Panem do it?  I don’t understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean,”  my mother says.  The rigid tone in her voice and the expression on her face is as clear as day, and it’s with an aching chest that I realize my father is mirroring her guise.  I know what that means.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They want to talk.  Alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hope Sam can’t hear the feverish pounding of my heart as I crouch down so I’m level with him.  “Hey, why don’t you go feed Annie and Clementine?”  I really hope he can’t see past my forced smile.  “I can take care of the rest of the food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Much to my relief, Sam agrees with a chirp to his voice and another gleeful grin.  I give him a pat on the shoulder before he scampers off toward the back door and disappears outside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With him out of the room, the air is so much more suffocating.  The full weight of the situation collapses down on me like a burning building.  I struggle to take in full breaths, fight to keep my hands steady as I rifle around in our dusty cabinets to look for bowls.  I’m well aware of my parents’ eyes on the back of my head, but I can’t bring myself to look at them.  I might lose what little composure I have left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean,”  my mother says again, more gently this time.  “Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I deliberately clatter the bowls together to mask my trembling inhale.  When I turn back around, I see nothing but their worried faces.  Worried about me and my crumbling poise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,”  I manage to say.  All three of us know it’s a lie.  “How’s Sam?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He cried when you left this morning,”  my father says, “but he calmed down when he knew it was about time for you to come home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clattering the bowls together again would be too obvious.  I can’t hide my distressed breaths this time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you wanna talk about it?”  my mother asks as I set the four bowls on the table, almost laughing at her proposal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s there to talk about?”  I doubt they’re falling for my poor attempt at a nonchalant reaction, but it’s worth a shot.  “There’s nothing we can do about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both of them fall silent then, and the only sound we’re left with is the monotonous humming of the lightbulb that hangs above the table.  It’s driving me insane.  I want to scream.  I want to scream at the top of my lungs, “No, I’m not okay!  I’m terrified!  My life is in the hands of whoever draws the pieces of paper out of those glass balls!  Sam’s life is in their hands, too!  He’s only twelve, for God’s sake!  And the worst part is that we can’t do anything to stop it!  All because the sick and twisted people in the Capitol equate </span>
  <em>
    <span>children murdering each other </span>
  </em>
  <span>with </span>
  <em>
    <span>entertainment!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But I say nothing, because I know if I open my mouth, the tears I’ve been holding back since I returned home will shortly follow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without another word, my mother glides across the kitchen and tenderly wraps her arms around me, holding me close against her warm body.  I didn’t realize how tense I’d been until I relax into her comforting embrace, listening to her heart beating against my ear and feeling her fingers massaging the stressed muscles between my shoulder blades.  Here, I feel safe, like I’m a little kid again constantly hounding her for love and attention.  I feel like her arms block out the dangers of the world.  I feel like nothing can get me when she’s holding me tightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby,”  she soothes, cradling my head and gently stroking my matted hair.  “Everything’s gonna be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t bother to stop the first tear that rolls down my cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m not sure how long I stand there, melted into my mother’s arms, noiselessly crying into her shirt, before my father hobbles over and clasps my shoulder.  His grip is strong, like an old harvester’s, and he doesn’t say a word, but his presence is consoling.  It only makes the tears flow out faster.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who knows what could happen out there tomorrow?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When both of them finally release me, my face is flushed and stained with tears.  I can’t stop trembling.  My stomach churns and my head spins just thinking about it all.  Not even the warmth and softness of my mother’s hands as she reaches up to wipe the tears from my skin can ease my distress now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you go get washed up?”  she says, a kind smile adorning her face.  “Then we can eat this delicious supper you worked so hard to get.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t need to tell me twice.  I’ve been itching to scrub this grime and sweat off me for hours, and with enough luck, it’ll conceal the traces of tears, too.  I don’t want Sam to worry about me.  I’m the one who should be worrying about him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time I finish washing off my filthy skin, rinsing the sweat out of my hair, and making sure my face is no longer red and blotchy, it’s time to eat.  I can smell the lamb stew from the back room where we clean ourselves, and it smells heavenly.  I throw on a fresh set of clothes and, with a deep breath, I return to the kitchen to take my seat at the table.  I’m starving.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s difficult to eat, though, when all of my concerns about tomorrow keep resurfacing, no matter how hard I try to lock them away.  I can’t look at Sam’s smiling, chubby face without thinking about his name being called, without thinking about watching him running for his life in the arena where twenty-two other boys will be trying to kill him.  I can’t look at my parents, fighting to keep their expressions free of turmoil, without thinking about how scared they must be for their two sons.  How afraid they must be for our lives.  I can’t look down at our plates and bowls of food without thinking, with a heavy heart, that this could be the last time we eat together as a family if one of us gets reaped.  I can’t eat my serving of bread without thinking about Charlie and how she so desperately wanted to help me, but she can’t.  Tomorrow, we will have to surrender to fate and whoever is coming to the district to pick the tributes, and that terrifies me to my very core.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It comes as no surprise that when night finally falls, I can’t even bear to close my eyes.  I toss and turn under my scratchy blanket, trying with every bit of strength I have left to rid my mind of those awful thoughts, but it’s almost impossible.  Terrible scenarios of all sorts play out in my head, and they won’t leave me alone.  I don’t think I’ve ever been more awake and alert in my life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m not sure what time it is when I hear soft footsteps padding across the floor.  Probably the dead of night if the loud crickets outside my window and the full moon shining through the glass are anything to go on.  There’s a gentle prod in my side, and when I roll over, I see Sam’s wide-eyed, frightened face illuminated in the moonlight, a tattered stuffed bear clutched in his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean?”  His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him, even in the silence of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Sammy.”  I have a feeling I know why he’s here, but I don’t want to make him feel bad about it.  “What’s going on?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I couldn’t sleep.  I had a bad dream,”  comes his faint response.  He hugs his bear closer to his chest and swallows hard.  “Can I stay with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So I scoot over and pat the empty spot next to me, and without hesitation, he climbs right in and snuggles under the covers.  When he curls up next to my side, I can feel he’s trembling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s just like when we were younger.  Sam always seemed to have horrible nightmares, and on nights like those, he would wake me up and ask if he could sleep in my bed until he calmed back down.  Usually he ended up staying until the next morning, but I didn’t mind.  As long as being in close proximity to me was enough to soothe his anxious mind, that was all that mattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been forever since he last had a nightmare, and I was beginning to think he’d outgrown them for good.  Something as dreadful and terrifying as your first reaping, though, I’m sure was more than enough to spark another terrible dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What was your bad dream about?”  I decide to ask.  Hopefully talking about it will ease some of his violent trembling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam sniffles, heaves a shaky sigh, reaches out to grab my arm with his clammy hand.  “It was you,”  he murmurs, his voice breaking more and more with every word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A weight drops to the pit of my stomach.  My heartbeat spikes, but I don’t show any of it.  Sam’s the one who needs comforting.  Not me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It won’t be,”  I reassure him, but he’s not an idiot.  He knows it’s out of our control, and it very well could be me who gets selected for certain death tomorrow.  It won’t do either of us any good to fall victim to paralyzing fear, though.  The best we can do is try to think positively.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know that,”  Sam says.  I feel a hot tear hitting my arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re right.  I don’t.  But there are a lot of other boys in District Nine, Sam.  I’ll be okay, and you will be, too.  I promise.  I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bout of heavy silence falls over us before Sam breaks it with another sniffle.  “I love you, Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snuggles down into my shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut, as if he’s willing himself to fall asleep.  In the moonlight, I see his cheeks are slick with tears.  He’s too small, too sweet to be roped into something as horrible as the Hunger Games.  I stand by my promise, and nothing will stop me from keeping it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Love you too, kiddo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, with the songs of the crickets and the comforting weight of my little brother curled up next to me, I manage to fall asleep.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I hate wearing dress clothes.  They’re too tight and far too formal for my taste, but you have to look your best for the cameras that are bound to be flooding the square, broadcasting the reaping to the entirety of Panem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even without its tributes, the Hundredth Hunger Games have already begun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I make Sam eat a quick breakfast before we leave, even though I can’t stand the thought of food myself.  Reapings always make me anxious, but something about this one is making a raging hurricane rampage around inside my stomach.  All I can think about is what’s going to happen once we’re in the square, and none of those thoughts are good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother hugs me tighter than ever before as Sam and I stand in the doorway.  I can hear the monotonous marching of the others making their way to the square.  Soon we will join them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be in the back, like always,”  she tells me.  Her voice is firm, but there are tears glistening in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squeezes Sam then while my father hugs me as best as he can with his lopsided posture.  He’s never been one for showing his emotions too much—I suppose that’s where I get it from—but as Sam and I hesitantly turn to leave the house, I catch him wiping the corner of his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no turning back now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a long walk to the square, the place that holds some of the fancier shops in the district as well as the Justice Building.  Usually it’s full of cheery people carrying about their shopping, but today, as a herd of quiet, terrified teenagers files into the square to sign in for the reaping, it can’t seem more foreign and desolate.  Big, high-tech cameras are hung from tall towers, operated by a crew of people whose expressions are more stoic than ours.  Peacekeepers surround the perimeter.  No one speaks.  Just silently follows the slowly moving mass of people toward the check-in tables, where Capitol officials will draw a prick of blood and keep tabs on who’s showing up and who’s not.  If someone doesn’t make an appearance, they will be imprisoned, no questions asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are roped off areas spanning the mass of the square.  Places for different age groups to get shoved into and await the name drawing.  Older kids in the front, and younger kids in the back.  I won’t be able to be with Sam throughout the event, and I’m not sure if that scares him or me more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds my hand so tightly that I think it’s cutting off my circulation as we approach the check-in tables, but I’m too numb to notice.  I’m afraid that if we let go, we’ll never join back up again.  I keep him close to me up until the very moment I have to sign in.  They prick my finger, scan my drop of blood, and then I’m being dragged off to join the other sixteen-year-olds of District 9.  I try to tune out Sam’s terrified whimpers before they make my heart shatter inside my chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel naked without him beside me in this organized but frightened mass of people.  I’m shoved up next to another boy who looks like he’s seconds away from fainting, although I probably don’t look too fantastic myself.  My other side is still empty, waiting for the next poor sixteen-year-old to join this catastrophe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hope Sam is okay.  I hope he’s not too scared and alone with the twelve-year-olds somewhere behind me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The platform in front of the Justice Building is currently vacant aside from the big glass ball that seems to be taunting everyone in the square.  Hundreds, even thousands, of pieces of paper fill it to the brim.  Despite the overwhelming amount of names that are surely inside that ball, I can’t help but only see twenty-six of them, twenty-five of them belonging to me and one belonging to Sam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our odds aren’t the worst, but it’s never a smart idea to get comfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m startled out of my paralyzing thoughts when another sixteen-year-old stumbles to a stop next to me, having been shoved by a rather aggressive Peacekeeper.  He looks absolutely horrified, his skin sickly pale and his eyes stretched wide, and it’s not until he regains his balance and takes his place next to me that I realize who it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the boy from the fields, the one with the bright blue eyes and jet black hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even look at me, just stares straight ahead and fights to keep his trembling hands at his sides.  He’s jumpier and more skittish than I think I’ve ever seen him, and I can’t help but feel awful for him.  We’re all scared out of our minds, of course, but he’s on an entirely different level.  Poor guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a feeble attempt to ease his rattled nerves, I try to strike up a conversation.  “How many times is your name in today?”  I ask, knowing it probably won’t help his stress, but I’m hoping that the simple act of talking to someone will calm him down, even if it’s just a little bit.  I know that works for me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts when I speak to him, almost as if I’d just yelled at him.  Still, he doesn’t meet my eyes as he drops his head and mumbles his response.  “Five.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must not have to take tesserae then.  That’s good.  If he’s this petrified by having his name in five times, I can’t even imagine the stress he’d be under if he was taking the extra food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty-five for me,”  I tell him with a sigh.  Maybe that’ll make him feel better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, his gaze snaps up and instantly locks with my own.  I think he’s more terrified than before.  Pure alarm and fear shines in his wide, bright blue eyes, and I don’t know why.  I thought commiserating would lift his spirits.  Turns out I just freaked him out even more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good job, Dean.  Good job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,”  I say, and I can’t stifle a nervous chuckle.  The intensity of his stare is piercing right through my skull.  “I’m fine.  Don’t worry.  Everything’s gonna be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t think he believes me—I know I don’t—but without another word, he lets his gaze fall back to the ground at our feet.  His trembling resumes.  Not much for conversation, is he?  I can’t say I blame him.  If I wasn’t a nervous talker, I’m sure I’d be just like him.  Silent and paralyzed with uncontrollable fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air is so thick and stifling that I can barely breathe as the square fills to its breaking point.  Everyone is packed in here like sardines.  Everywhere I look, all I see are backs of heads and occasional glimpses of ashen, scared faces.  The only sounds are the shuffling of feet and the distant singing of the birds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What I wouldn’t give to be back in the liberating emptiness of the fields right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lump forms in my dry throat as the main doors to the Justice Building creak open, and out steps District 9’s escort, Rowena MacLeod, fresh from the Capitol.  Her red hair is piled up on top of her head and held in place with what has to be an entire gallon of hair products.  Her pale makeup is blinding in the sunlight, and even from where I stand, her outrageously colorful outfit makes me sick to my stomach.  I’ll never understand Capitol fashion.  How can they think it looks appealing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dark-haired boy next to me stiffens as our district’s escort toddles her way up to the microphone at the front of the platform, the clicking of her heels near-deafening in the tense silence.  His trembling worsens with every step she takes.  I swear, he’s on the verge of passing out or getting sick.  I want to keep talking to him, anything to calm him down, but what can I say that could possibly ease the overwhelming distress he’s going through?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I realize I don’t even know his name.  We’ve worked in the same fields for a long while, but I know nothing about him.  I’m just opening my mouth to ask him when Rowena taps on the microphone, sending a loud wave of feedback through the square and signaling the start of the reaping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can’t talk anymore.  I’ll get my face bashed in by a Peacekeeper.  The best I can do is flash the poor boy a reassuring glance, and even then, he doesn’t seem to notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome, welcome!”  Rowena chirps into the microphone.  Her lively eagerness is excruciatingly out of place in the quiet and solemn square.  She goes on to announce the special hundredth anniversary of the Hunger Games, repeat the rule change for the fourth Quarter Quell, and again, welcome us, as if we actually want to be here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the mayor speaks, going over the same speech he does every year.  The history of Panem, the rebellion against the Capitol, how the defeat of the rebellion resulted in the birth of the Hunger Games, the same boring things.  We hear it every year.  I know it’s mandatory, a harsh reminder to the districts to keep another rebellion from happening, but surely they can find a way to spice it up a bit.  I could probably recite this speech without stuttering once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I zone out around the time he gets to the part about why we have the Hunger Games.  I don’t care.  It’s murder, plain and simple, but the people of the Capitol see it as an entertaining TV show.  God, when did this country’s morals disappear off the face of the earth?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m only ripped back to reality when I see Rowena approaching the microphone again, and everything inside of me comes crashing down in a burning wave of pure anxiety.  She’s going to pick the names.  It’s time for the part of the reaping that everyone dreads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not ready.  I’m not ready for this at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so silent you could hear a pin drop.  No one speaks, moves, or even dares to breathe as Rowena sticks her carefully manicured hand down into the glass ball of names.  She fishes around for a fleeting moment, as if she’s searching for the perfect victim, and then one is in her grasp.  It’s just a piece of paper, but looking at it is enough to chill my blood to ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart hammers as she returns to the microphone and unfolds the slip.  The crinkling rings in my ears.  Please, let it not be Sam or me.  Let it not be Sam or me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s not.  Thank God.  But when Rowena’s chirpy voice echoes through the square, reading out the name “Castiel Novak,” and the dark-haired boy next to me freezes up like he’s just been shot, I suddenly don’t feel as relieved as I should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone turns to look in our direction, a noiseless mass of people all moving in eerie synchronization.  They’re not looking at me.  They’re looking at the petrified boy next to me, but I can’t help but feel small under their sympathetic stares.  I can’t even imagine what must be running through his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel doesn’t move an inch for what seems like a century.  A long, silent, agonizing century.  Everyone is gawking at him and his terrified, dumbstruck expression.  Rowena is encouraging him to step forward.  Peacekeepers are starting to come over to us to drag him from the crowd.  Still, he doesn’t budge.  I’m not even sure if he’s breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jumps and bites back a whimper when a Peacekeeper seizes his arm.  My heart aches just looking at him.  I barely knew him, but I wanted to.  He seems so soft-spoken and amiable, but now I’ll never know for sure.  The odds were not in his favor today, and watching as the Peacekeeper struggles to haul him from the crowd makes my stomach hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he’s out of my range, I reach out and touch his cold arm, just for a brief moment, just for a bit of comfort.  I hold his distraught, pleading gaze until the Peacekeeper turns him around and forces him onto the platform with Rowena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This shouldn’t have happened to him.  This shouldn’t have to happen to anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the crowd fills in around me, taking up the spot that once belonged to the boy from the fields, I find myself watching him stumble up the stairs, where Rowena instantly grasps his shoulders and tugs him to the center of the platform.  He looks so tiny, so fearful and timid, next to her and her vibrant Capitol attire.  He’s far away now, so I’m not sure if I’m seeing things correctly, but I’m certain I see a single tear trickling down his pasty face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s time to pick the next victim—tribute, I mean.  Everyone in the crowd holds their breath.  My heart stops beating as Rowena searches for another slip of paper, humming to herself like she’s enjoying ruining people’s lives.  She trots back over to the microphone when she finds a suitable piece, and with poor Castiel trembling next to her, she reads out the name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still not me.  But it’s so much worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Samuel Winchester.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t understand.  This can’t be right.  His name was only in there once, swimming around with thousands of others.  How did this happen?  There’s no way.  There’s no possible way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every last bit of oxygen gets knocked out of my burning lungs when his name echoes around the square, like a hammer to my skull.  I forget how to take a breath.  I forget how to think properly.  I forget how to stand.  My knees start to buckle, but someone in the crowd must help me stay upright.  I’m not sure.  All I can think about is my worsening nausea and the fact that my little brother, the one who sleeps with me when he has nightmares and is afraid to squash insects, is currently being pulled from the mass of people and guided up to the chopping block.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face has no color to it.  He barely picks up his feet as he shuffles toward the platform, Peacekeepers urging him forward.  Everyone in the crowd watches with grim expressions, unhappy murmurs, because this boy is only twelve years old.  He’s too young for something like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure what it is that snaps me out of my horrified, utterly shocked and stunned stupor, but before I know it, I’m shoving my way through the crowd to get to him.  I will not let this happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam!”  My own strangled voice sounds foreign to me.  He jumps, stops dead in his tracks when he realizes it’s me, and tries to turn around to slip past the Peacekeepers; they seize his arms in a heartbeat.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sam!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Another pair of Peacekeepers grabs me before I can reach him.  They fight to shove me back into line, into the crowd of the rest of the teenagers, but I fight back.  They’re taking Sam away.  They’re taking away my little brother, the one I always tried so hard to keep safe.  I can’t let them do this.  It’s not fair.  It’s not fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The desperate words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.  “Stop!  I volunteer!”  I exclaim.  “I volunteer as tribute!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, more bewildered and shocked.  It’s been forever since District 9 has seen a volunteer.  The Peacekeepers have let go of me, but I only notice the ones who have let go of Sam.  He rushes to me in an instant, clinging to me like a frightened koala, crying and whimpering into my stomach.  Every part of me has gone completely numb.  I can’t feel anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean, no!”  my little brother sobs.  I barely hear him over the shrill ringing in my ears.  “Don’t go!  You can’t go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone is staring at us.  I know it.  We’re causing a scene, and Sam’s tight grip around my abdomen as he begs me to stay is only making me more upset.  Tears burn in my eyes, but I blink them back.  I will not cry in front of the cameras that are surely zoomed right in on us.  I will not cry in front of the Capitol people who are watching, laughing at my weakness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I made a promise to protect my little brother, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.  Even if it costs me my life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peacekeepers are starting to surround us, to drag me to the platform and take Sam back to the crowd.  He’s screaming, crying, refusing to let go of me but unable to fight back against the strength of the Peacekeepers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam, let go.”  It’s getting harder and harder to suppress the tears with each strangled word that passes through my tight throat.  “It’s okay.  Go find Mom and Dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still screaming, begging me not to go, and his anguished cries only worsen when the Peacekeepers finally manage to tear him away from me.  His broken voice resonates around the noiseless square and shatters my heart into thousands of pieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I faintly hear Rowena saying something about the excitement of a volunteer as I mindlessly stagger up the stairs to the platform.  I’m not sure.  All I can hear is the sound of my little brother’s screams echoing around inside my head.  Rowena grabs my shoulders with her freezing, manicured hands and pulls me to the center, right next to Castiel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of us are right back where we started.  Standing next to one another, fearing the outcome of the reaping, except this time, we know the outcome.  And we’re part of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, this is a thrilling turn of events!”  Rowena gushes.  Being at the center of attention is like being crushed under a boulder.  Everyone is staring at me, and I hate it.  “What’s your name, dear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure if my voice still works.  “Dean Winchester,”  I manage to choke out.  It barely does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That must’ve been your little brother, then.  Ah, how wonderful!”  I’m caught between wanting to punch her in her caked face and bursting into tears on the spot.  Somehow, I stay calm and do neither.  “Come on, everyone!  Let’s give a big round of applause to our courageous volunteer and newest tribute, Dean Winchester!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena is the only one clapping.  The sound of it is alien in the deafening silence of the square.  Not a single person raises their hands to join her.  They merely stand stiff as boards, expressions rigid, lips pursed, brows slightly furrowed, because everyone knows this is wrong.  No twelve-year-old should be reaped for murder.  No sixteen-year-old should have to take their place.  No one should have to participate in this sick game at all, and silence is our only way of defying everything the Capitol classifies as entertainment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I know the looks on their faces.  I know most of these people from the market, the fields, just around the district.  They know me, and they know Sam.  The glints in their eyes show respect, admiration, despair for losing someone they know and love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s someone else looking at me, but this time they’re to my left.  Castiel’s bright blue eyes are gleaming with an emotion I can’t quite discern.  Terror?  Admiration?  Hopelessness?  I don’t know.  I just know that when I meet his gaze up on this platform instead of in the crowd, everything feels different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re in this together now.  Whether we live or die in this pitiful, sadistic excuse for entertainment, it all starts here, and there’s no turning back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy from the fields and I are now two of the twenty-four tributes selected to participate in the Hundredth Hunger Games.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I preordered The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes back in January and it got here yesterday and holy moly it's so good so far.  I'm only like 6 chapters in, but I'm absolutely LOVING it.  Have any of y'all gotten it yet?  10/10 would recommend :)<br/>Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Immediately following the conclusion of the reaping—which was mostly just Rowena expressing her excitement and then being shot down by the district’s silence and unenthusiasm—Castiel and I are whisked away into the Justice Building.  Neither of us has a chance to say anything to one another before we’re split up and shoved into separate rooms, the places we have an hour to say our farewells to our loved ones in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door slams shut behind me, and I’m left alone in blissful silence.  It’s a rather fancy room, adorned with soft rugs and leather furniture and an ancient but beautiful chandelier.  It’s certainly more luxurious than my house and probably any place in District 9.  There’s a fuzzy blanket draped across one of the couches, too, and as I wait for that door to open again, I run my trembling fingers through it in a feeble attempt to calm myself down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know what I’ve gotten myself into, but that doesn’t make it any easier to digest.  I’m absolutely terrified of what’s to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam is the first to barge into the quiet room, shortly followed by my parents.  We’re given a three minute warning, but I don’t think anyone heard it.  Sam, his face stained with tears and his chest heaving with frantic breaths, launches himself into my arms and squeezes me so tightly I can hardly breathe myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t cry.  I just can’t.  I have to be strong for him.  I have to be strong for the cameras that are bound to be swarming the train station in an hour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing the lump in my throat, I crouch down so I’m level with him, just like I always do at home.  I tell him to not take any tesserae.  It’s not worth the risk.  I tell him to try working in the fields in a few years, but never stop using Annie and Clementine’s milk to make extra money.  He’s good with animals.  Maybe he can make his living doing something like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I don’t think he’s listening to me.  He hasn’t stopped crying since he came into the room.  “You have to come back,”  he snivels in between distraught sobs.  “You have to win.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to know there’s a slim chance of that happening.  All of the tributes are going to be boys.  Boys who are a lot bigger and stronger than I am.  Boys from wealthier districts who have been training their entire lives to participate in the Games.  Boys who can throw a spear straight through your heart without even blinking or breaking a sweat.  I’ve seen that happen.  I’m not flimsy or weak in the slightest, but I know I won’t even be able to compete with the rest of them.  I’ll just be one of their first targets, a small farm boy from District 9 who’s never been in a fight in his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re really strong,”  my little brother goes on, tears spilling from his puffy eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing I can do but indulge his hopes.  I can’t bear to see him cry any more.  “Yes, I am,”  I say with the most encouraging smile I can put on.  Every word hurts more than the last.  “I bet I’ll be the strongest one there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hugs me again, his arms wrapped around my neck, and I hold him close, relishing every single moment.  I try not to think about how it could be the last time I see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please just try to win, Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though I doubt my chances, I don’t want to dampen Sam’s spirits any more than they already are.  I promise him I will, and I intend to try as hard as I possibly can.  For him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother is already crying long before I reach out and pull her into my arms.  It takes all of my willpower to suppress my own tears as she trembles in my embrace, squeezes the life out of me, leans back to plant a kiss on my cheek.  She holds my face, her touch soft and delicate and comforting, and presses her forehead against mine.  She tells me she loves me, and I tell her I love her, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My father, always the tough guy in the family, manages to give me his hug without letting a tear fall.  I’ve known him my whole life, though, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his expression so pained.  He says he loves me, and I, of course, say it right back to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to try to win.  I can’t stand the thought of this being our final farewell.  It’s too heartbreaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the Peacekeepers are at the door, barking that the three minutes are up, and Sam is hugging me so tightly that it takes two of them to pry him off me and he’s screaming again and I’m choking out desperate “I love you’s” as my family is escorted out of the room for good.  When the door slams shut, sealing me in silence once more, all I want to do is cry and shriek my throat raw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This can’t be happening.  Why is this happening?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie is the next person to enter the room.  I don’t think I’ve been more relieved to see her.  She flings herself into my arms without saying a single word, and for a long while, that’s how we remain.  Locked in a desperate embrace, her quivering with suppressed sobs and me fighting to keep them all back.  It hurts.  It hurts so badly, but I can’t cry.  I can’t.  I might never stop if I do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she finally releases me and takes a step back, her tear-stained face is still alight with a heartening smile.  “You’ve gotta be the coolest, bravest person I know, Winchester,”  she tells me, her voice soft and strained from crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, despite this horribly grim scenario we’re in, we still manage to share a laugh together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do this,”  she goes on.  “You’ve worked in the fields for years.  You’re strong, and you’re smart, and you’re quick.  You have a good chance at winning this thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since when has intelligence saved anyone from someone who knows how to throw knives?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can figure it out.  Like I said, you’re smart.”  She smiles at me again, but I can’t ignore the torment glimmering in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s not much else to say.  She promises to look after Sam and my family, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>I promise her that I’ll do everything in my power to win and come home.  Her side of the deal is much more attainable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We spend our remaining time together in silence, holding one another close, savoring each possible second that we can, because far too soon, the door opens again and the Peacekeepers are dragging her out of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t forget that I love you, Dean!”  she calls out after me.  Just before the door shuts, I hear her voice one last time, exclaiming, “Platonically!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her absence already leaves a burning hole in my aching chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a while, no one else comes into the room, and I’m thinking I might have a few fleeting moments to let out the tears that have been stinging in my eyes for what feels like an eon.  I barely have the chance to let one slip down my cheek before the door creaks open, and a young boy—old enough to be eligible for the reaping but definitely not my age—sheepishly shuffles into the room.  I don’t quite recognize him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must notice the confused expression on my face.  He gives a faint smile, so feeble and weak that it’s hardly there, and approaches me with silent, timid footsteps.  “You probably don’t know me,”  he murmurs, struggling to lift his head and meet my eyes.  “My name’s Gabriel.  I’m Castiel’s brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why is he visiting me then, I wonder?  I’m sure he already spoke with his brother, my fellow tribute in this awful ordeal, but why me?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, but I just wanted to tell you something,”  little Gabriel continues.  He draws a deep breath, and I find myself rather concerned about what he could possibly have to say to me.  “When I was a lot younger, my oldest brother was reaped.  He didn’t come home, and it messed me up for years.  I still don’t think I’ve gotten over it.  Not completely, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but wonder why he’s telling me all this.  I feel terrible about his family’s loss—I can’t even imagine what it must’ve been like for him as a child—but if there’s some hidden message in his words, I’m struggling to find it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I know this is a lot to ask, and you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but…”  Gabriel pauses to swallow, the color draining from his face and his hands beginning to shake at his sides.  “I already lost one brother to the Games.  I don’t wanna lose another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not entirely sure why, but I reach out and pull him into my arms.  Maybe it’s because I’m a brother too, and I would do anything to keep Sam safe, hence why I’m standing in this room.  I don’t know what it’s like to have already lost one, thankfully, but I can’t say the same for Gabriel.  How awful for their family, to have one person reaped and then another a few years later.  I can’t imagine what they’re going through right now.  The thought of it alone is enough to add to the aching in my heart, the stiffness in my tense muscles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s that exact thought, though, that makes me realize why Gabriel Novak, the little brother of my fellow tribute Castiel, is in this room with me, his own arms wrapped around me and crushing my bones with his deathlike grip.  He wants me to protect Castiel, to keep him alive, to bring him home safe and sound, unlike their older brother years ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without even hesitating, I promise him I’ll get his sibling home safely.  I don’t want him to experience another traumatizing loss like that.  Not ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, as Gabriel Novak is escorted out of the room and I’m left alone for the third time, I’m more confident in my abilities to survive, to outsmart the Games.  Maybe it’s because of my promise to Sam and my parents, my promise that I’ll try to win and come back.  Maybe it’s because of the idea that I’ll get to see Charlie again and listen to her snarky but incredibly lighthearted jokes.  Maybe it’s because of little Gabriel, begging me to keep his brother safe so he doesn’t have to lose another to the horrible Games.  Whatever it is, it’s fueling my determination, and I don’t want it to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We may be simple farm boys from District 9, but there has to be a way for Castiel and me to make it out of the arena alive.  We’ll just have to find it before someone else does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*  *  *  *  *</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The train station, as I expected, is swarming with cameras trying to get a glimpse of the tributes from District 9 before we board the sleek train and speed away toward the waiting Capitol.  Much to my relief, my face is not red or blotchy or stained with tears, so no one will get the impression that I’m afraid of what’s to come.  On the other hand, it’s evident that Castiel has been crying.  His bright blue eyes are still brimming with tears as Rowena instructs us to stand in the doorway of the train for a few moments, just to give the cameras an extra minute to broadcast our images to the people of Panem.  He’s not shaking like before, just silently letting the tears stream down his flushed cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder if he’s thinking about this same exact thing happening to his older brother years prior.  The thought of it makes me ill, and it only solidifies my promise to Gabriel, and myself, for that matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy from the fields is coming home if it’s the last thing I do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, we’re released from the spotlight and allowed to board the train.  The door slides closed behind us, effortlessly clicking into place, and seals us in blissful silence.  There’s no more chatter, no more cameras, just the three of us and a beautifully elegant train that shoots out of the station like a bullet.  I can definitely tell this belongs to the Capitol.  It’s fancier than the room in the Justice Building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite my disdain and hatred for the people of the Capitol, I can’t deny that their tools and materials are extremely breathtaking.  I feel like I’m too poor and dirty to even be looking at the diner car we’re standing in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the train speeds down the tracks, taking us away from the comfort of our home in the rolling hills of District 9, Rowena is more excited than ever.  She tells us we have our own bedrooms, our own private bathrooms, our own wardrobes that are filled with clothes we can wear.  Basically, almost everything on this train belongs to us.  Even the mountain of baked sweets I spot sitting in the corner of the car.  She must see me ogling at it, though, because she warns me to not spoil my appetite.  We’re eating lunch in an hour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder if that’s when we’ll meet our mentor, a previous victor who’s set to instruct us on how to best survive the Games.  I haven’t seen them all day, and if I’m being honest, I’m not even sure if I know who it is.  It’s been so long since District 9 has had a victor.  Maybe I wasn’t even born when they won.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, Rowena dismisses us to do whatever we please, just as long as we’re back in this car in time to eat.  It’s rather overwhelming, being left to wander this massive, sophisticated train, but hopefully it won’t be too tricky to navigate.  We’ll reach the Capitol by nightfall according to our overly cheery escort, anyway, so I’m not too concerned with memorizing its layout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel hasn’t said a word all throughout our journey from the Justice Building to the train.  I think the last—and first—time I heard him speak was back in the square, when he’d told me his name was only in the ball five times.  He still has the composure of a frightened deer, a startled mouse, and even when I give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as I pass him to find my temporary bedroom, he only draws an unsteady breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room I’m given is at least triple the size of my room back home.  A large bed sits up against the back wall, silky sheets neatly tucked underneath the foam mattress and pillows that look as soft as clouds lining the headboard.  Above it, a thin window lets bright sunlight stream in and illuminate the room, and I see the hills of our district speeding by as the train roars through the countryside.  A pang of longing shoots through my chest when I realize it’s an expansive stretch of peaceful wheat fields.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I miss home already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I won’t be coming back any time soon, though—if at all, but I try not to think about that—so instead, I focus my racing mind on cleaning myself up.  There’s a hot shower with my name on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We don’t usually have the privilege of hot water in District 9.  At first the scalding temperature startles me, makes my skin flare up, but after I get used to it, it feels divine.  I’m not sure how long I stand underneath the rain of hot water, my eyes closed as the sweat pours down the drain, but I know that when I step out, my muscles feel like liquid. It’s incredible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena was certainly right about one thing.  The wardrobe in the corner of my massive room is teeming with clean clothes.  They’re not too Capitol-esque, thankfully, but they’re definitely a step up from what we wear back home.  I slip on a pair of black pants that are a bit too tight for my liking and a simple button-up shirt.  Already, I feel ten times better than I did when I first stepped onto this train.  Whatever works to ease the stress, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I still have some time before we eat, so seeing as we won’t be sleeping here tonight, I take advantage of the bed that’s fit for a king and lie down to relax.  Or at least try to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I quickly realize that relaxing is futile.  Not even the gentle chugging of the high-speed train or the softness of the sheets beneath me can calm my nerves.  My mind is plagued with thoughts of the Capitol, what we’re going to do when we get there, the Games themselves, and no matter how hard I try to push them away, they always come back with a vengeance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve never been outside my own district, let alone to the Capitol.  What’s it going to be like?  People like Rowena, clad in gaudy clothes and too much makeup, are bound to be everywhere we turn.  But what else awaits us in this faraway place?  Where will we be staying until the Games begin?  Where will we train, get interviewed, be forced to dress up like dolls so the Capitol can observe us like lab experiments and then bet on our odds of winning?  There are so many questions still unanswered, and I’ll admit I’m afraid to know them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t dare explore my worries about the actual Games yet.  The Gamemakers always keep the exact details obscure, like what biome the arena is going to be, what weapons they’re going to lay out for the tributes.  It’s impossible to predict anything—they love to keep people guessing—and that means it’s impossible to formulate a rough survival plan for Castiel and me.  I suppose we’ll just have to play it by ear for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I must’ve been trapped in my mess of a mind longer than I thought.  Rowena is knocking on my door, telling me to get up and join everyone in the diner car for lunch, and she sounds giddy.  Is this woman ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>animated?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe we’ll finally get to meet our mentor.  Maybe that’s why she’s so enthusiastic.  I can’t lie and say I’m not eager to meet them, anyway.  They’re going to be our only lifeline throughout this catastrophe, the one who will give us tips on how to survive and set up sponsors for us when we’re stuck in the arena.  Hopefully whoever they are, they’ll help me figure out how to get Castiel and me home safely.  I have no idea where to even begin with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep breath to prepare myself for a while of socialization, I leave the serenity of my room and make my way to the diner car.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The delectable smell of hot, fresh food hits my nose and makes my mouth water in an instant.  I must be hungrier than I thought.  Rowena and Castiel are already in the diner car, seated at a round table that looks like it’s made of the finest wood in the world.  It practically glimmers in the light.  Before them sits an entire array of lavish food, ranging from simple appetizers to high-class cakes and cookies.  There’s enough here to feed half our district.  This is insane!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena spots me standing bug-eyed in the doorway and waves me over, her pale face alight with a grin as she takes a plate and starts picking out her lunch.  “Dean, dear!  Come join us!”  she chirps.  “I was just telling this handsome young man how the Capitol spares no expense for its valiant tributes.  If you think this buffet is wonderful, then I can’t wait to see your reactions when we arrive to the Capitol!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel doesn’t seem to take too kindly to her gushing compliment about him.  He shrinks down into his shoulders as I approach the table and take a seat next to him, but Rowena doesn’t seem to notice.  Either that, or she’s not bothered by it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does look a lot better now that we’re out of the stress of the reaping, though.  With new, clean clothes and I assume a shower, his dark hair is a lot fluffier, his face now immaculate and free of tear stains.  Although his eyes are still rather puffed up, he looks more at ease, more prepared to take on our upcoming challenges.  I’m glad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s already a gleaming plate set on the table in front of me, so all I have to do is decide which direction I’m going to take.  Do I go savory and pick out some pasta coated with red sauce, or slices of steaming turkey and mashed potatoes?  Do I gorge myself on sweets, like the tempting cheesecake that’s sitting before me?  Or do I go all out because why not?  I’m here, I’m being shipped off to what could be certain death, so why not take advantage of an all-you-can-eat?  It’s not like I care how much the Capitol spends.  They’re drowning in money, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we gonna meet our mentor soon?”  I ask Rowena as I pile potatoes and rolls and turkey slices onto my plate.  I take a glob of pasta for good measure, too.  Might as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He should be coming,”  our escort says, glancing at the door with a sigh.  “I told him to meet us here at lunchtime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I notice Castiel hasn’t touched any food at all yet.  He’s just staring down at his empty plate, eyes glazed over and expression completely vacant.  Surely he has to be hungry.  It’s been hours since we’ve last had an opportunity to eat anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I was wrong about thinking he was more at ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I have a chance to ask him if he’s all right, the door to the diner car slides open, and an older, stocky man with a scowling face and an unkempt scruff shuffles into the room.  He looks far from pleased or exuberant as he heaves a massive sigh and reluctantly sits down next to Rowena.  The latter looks like she’s using all of her strength to keep from scolding him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If this is our mentor, my hopes have plummeted to my feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena is fighting to put on a smile.  I can see the pain shining behind her eyes.  “Boys,”  she says through gritted teeth.  “I’d like for you to meet your mentor.  This is—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Singer,”  the man grunts.  I’m almost afraid to look him in the eye.  “Bobby Singer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a bit of a Grumpy Gus,”  Rowena quickly adds, “but he knows what he’s doing.  He’s here to help you boys figure out how to survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has to have been years since this man won his Games.  I don’t doubt his intelligence or ability to help us—he did win once, after all—but has it really been that long since District 9 has had a victor?  Maybe I’m being too confident in our abilities to win and go home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An uneasy silence fills the air as our surly mentor Bobby Singer picks out his lunch and Rowena merely watches him out of the corners of her eyes, as if she’s just waiting for him to say or do something ill-mannered.  Meanwhile, Castiel still hasn’t budged, and I quietly try to eat my own food, fearful of disrupting the silence that’s so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.  Things sure are going swimmingly for us this afternoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, as he snatches a piece of toast and coats it with dark jam, Bobby Singer raises his head to glance between Castiel and me, his gaze unreadable.  “So, who are the two unlucky ones this year?”  Even his voice is as gruff as his appearance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes me a moment to realize he’s asking us for our names, and for some odd reason, I’m so nervous I’m stumbling over my own words.  “I’m, uh, Dean Winchester,”  I tell him.  His stare is uncomfortably scrutinizing.  “I work in the, uh, wheat fields back home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.”  His response is so sudden and near-positive that I’m taken aback.  “You must be strong or good with sickles, or both.  Both would be preferable.  We can work with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard for me to swallow an anxious but rather intrigued laugh when Rowena flashes me a reassuring grin.  If the man who once won the Hunger Games already has faith in me—even if it’s just the tiniest spark—then I’m happy.  Slowly, my confidence starts to return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least it did, until I notice Bobby watching Castiel with his unreadable but undoubtedly crotchety expression.  Castiel is as still as a statue, and quite frankly, I’m not even sure if he noticed Bobby’s appearance at all.  Has he even blinked?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you, son?”  Bobby asks, his brows furrowing at Castiel’s refusal to move.  “You gonna answer me, or are you just gonna sit there and wallow in self-pity?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,”  I snap at our mentor without even stopping to think about the repercussions.  “Go easy on him.  It’s been a hard day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Great.  Now everyone is staring at me.  Even Castiel has broken his rigid posture to turn his head, but only ever so slightly.  Rowena mostly looks horrified, like I’ve just committed treason, but she doesn’t concern me.  Bobby Singer’s dangerously narrowed eyes, on the other hand, </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>concern me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I might not even make it to the Games.  Our mentor might kill me right here, right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, much to my surprise and overwhelming relief, our surly mentor merely cracks a smile.  “I like your spunk, kid,”  he tells me.  “We’ll put that to good use.  Make sure everyone knows not to mess with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena is back to grinning at me, as if nothing ever happened.  I wonder if she gets whiplash from changing her emotions so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The attention is back on quiet Castiel, though, since he still hasn’t introduced himself completely.  Part of me wants to do it for him, but I’m not sure if Bobby will appreciate that one.  Defending people is one thing, but taking total control of the situation is probably crossing a line, no matter how badly I want to.  My fellow tribute looks too afraid to even raise his head and look across the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he draws a trembling breath and forces himself to sit up in his chair.  Still, he struggles to fully meet our mentor’s eyes.  “Castiel Novak,”  he murmurs, barely audible over the sound of the train.  I can’t quite explain why it hurts when I realize it’s only the second time I’ve ever heard him speak.  “I work in the fields, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I got two field workers this year,”  Bobby remarks, shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.  “Not bad.  Not bad.  Anything else I should know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I doubt Castiel is going to talk again.  It doesn’t look like he even has the strength for it.  So instead, I try to speak for the both of us, despite the fact that I still know next to nothing about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re both smart, and quick, too,”  I say, fully hoping that I’m not feeding our mentor lies.  “We should be able to pick up whatever you tell us pretty easily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll see about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m glad Rowena clears her throat because it takes the attention away from my fallen expression.  That wasn’t a very consoling thing for a mentor to say.  Aren’t they supposed to lift us up, boost our confidence, prepare us for what we could possibly be facing up against in the arena?  One thing’s for certain, and it’s that I’m not feeling very inspired by the person who’s supposed to be helping us learn how to survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should reach the Capitol in a few hours,”  Rowena says, completely changing the subject.  I don’t mind.  “Since District Nine is rather close, you two will get an extra night to relax and ready yourselves before the big tribute parade tomorrow evening.  You’re lucky!  The outlying districts have to spend the night on the train and immediately jump into the hands of their individual prep teams in the morning!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Prep teams?”  The dismayed question comes out of my mouth before I can stop it.  I seem to have a habit of doing that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, prep teams!”  Rowena trills, eagerly clapping her hands together.  “Each tribute has a group of Capitol beauty specialists designated to them!  They’re going to make you look your very best!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I must roll my eyes or groan or do something that Rowena doesn’t appreciate.  She lightly kicks me under the table and asks me where my manners are.  I want to tell her I do have them, and actual morals, but would rather not waste them on selfish people who won’t bother to return the favor.  We’re not humans to the Capitol.  We’re just toys they think they can dress up and beautify for their pleasure and entertainment.  All I know about the tribute parade is that it’s the first time everyone sees the tributes all together, which pretty much equates to the better you look, the more bets and sponsors you’ll receive.  I don’t even want to think about what they’re going to do to us tomorrow morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be staying in a luxurious apartment above the Training Center until the Games begin,”  Rowena goes on after she finishes reprimanding me.  I’m just a crowd pleaser this trip, aren’t I?  “Since you’re from District Nine, you’ll be on the ninth floor.  Once we reach the Capitol, we’ll head straight there.  Don’t want too many people catching glimpses of you before the big parade, do we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one matches her vivacious enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have much of an appetite anymore.  Trying to figure out and adapt to Bobby Singer’s attitude wore me out enough, and now Rowena is starting up with her gushing about the Games again.  I don’t care how fancy our apartment is going to be.  I don’t care if people from the Capitol see us before the reveal tomorrow at the parade.  All of it is pointless, just self-centered, materialistic nonsense.  What I really care about is how Castiel and I are going to survive this whole nightmare, and judging by our mentor’s gruff and obscure demeanor, that might prove to be more taxing than anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eat up, dear,”  Rowena tells the boy from the fields.  “You’re skinnier than a twig.  You’ll need your strength for the days to come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel suddenly turns to me again, face alight with faint concern, as if he’s waiting for my approval or something.  I don’t know what he expects, but I give him a nod of reassurance, and sure enough, he hesitantly reaches across the table and grabs a buttered roll.  Nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult to ignore Bobby’s watchful gaze on me as I try with all my willpower to finish my own plate of food.  Rowena is right.  We’re going to need it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*  *  *  *  *</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few long, uneventful hours pass.  After our incredibly awkward and tense lunch, Bobby Singer retreated to his room, but to do what, I have no idea.  At least he isn’t bothering me or harassing Castiel anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of, the boy from the fields who has still barely said anything all day disappeared into his room, too, without uttering a single word to anyone as he went.  I wish he would talk more.  If not to me, then at least to Rowena.  She may be from the Capitol and way too eager about what’s going on, but her heart is in the right place.  She’s trying to make this trip as smooth as possible for us, and deep down, I can appreciate that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know it’s probably the extreme stress of everything that’s happened that’s making Castiel so timid and silent, but I hope he manages to come out of his shell soon.  I won’t be able to help him—help </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>—if he doesn’t speak to me.  And I want to help him more than anything.  I don’t break promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So with no one to talk to, I spend the remainder of the journey to the Capitol sitting by myself in the corner of the diner car, in a cushioned seat that’s positioned so I can gaze out the spotless window.  The landscape slowly transitions from the rolling hills of District 9 to more jagged cliffs as the mountainous zone where the Capitol resides creeps closer.  We’re almost there, and I can’t decide if I’m excited to get off this train or absolutely terrified to see what awaits us in the big city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I’ll have a better chance to talk to Castiel once we’re settled in the apartment, where we won’t be under the spotlights of the reaping or the pressures of Rowena and Bobby.  We should have enough freedom to spend some time together, to possibly get to know one another a bit more before the events leading up to the Games swallow us whole.  I would like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mountains begin to grow taller, jutting up into the cloudless sky.  Their towering peaks threaten to block out the rays of warm sunlight, and I’m not sure if I’m just imagining things or if the interior of the train is suddenly a lot colder than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, in the near distance, I see something sparkling in the light.  I squint my eyes, lean closer to the window, and realize it’s a monstrous skyscraper, its outer finishing so sleek and silver that it glimmers beneath the sun like a mirror.  There are tons of them, all packed together and spanning an enormous strip of land beside the mountains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the Capitol.  It has to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena confirms my suspicion when she excitedly toddles back into the diner car, nearly tripping over her own high heels.  “We’re here!”  she chirps.  “Get ready, dear!  Once we stop in the train station, we’ll make our way to the Training Center.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car plunges into darkness without warning.  My heart leaps up to my throat when the sounds of the train are amplified, as if they’re echoing around inside of a tunnel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I realize that’s exactly what’s going on.  As far as I know, all districts are blocked off from the others by a long stretch of tunnel that only trains like this one and authorized Capitol vehicles can pass through.  We’re gliding through the tunnel that keeps the Capitol secured from the outside world, which means we’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the thick of it now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When daylight returns and illuminates the car in a flash, all I see are flamboyant wigs, garish makeup, glittering clothes, and grinning faces of Capitol citizens as they swarm the train station, eagerly awaiting the arrival of another tribute train.  They’re waving at the windows, chanting words I can’t quite make out, practically piling on top of one another to get a glimpse of the interior of the train.  Are they seriously that desperate to see us that they’ve been camping out at the train station, waiting for our arrival?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I must have a look of bewilderment on my face.  Rowena laughs and gently begins to rub my tense shoulders.  “You’re a celebrity now, dear,”  she tells me.  “Everyone’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying </span>
  </em>
  <span>to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, I certainly don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a celebrity.  I’m a candidate for a murder contest.  And that probably wasn’t the best choice of words on Rowena’s part, either.  Those people ogling outside the train aren’t the ones who are going to be dying soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the train rolls to a stop, Castiel returns to the diner car, still as silent as ever.  Bobby Singer follows shortly behind.  Rowena then guides us toward a back exit of the train so we’re not swarmed by the Capitol citizens, and outside, a smooth, streamline car sits waiting for us.  I’ve never been in a car before.  Everyone always walks in District 9.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a driver already seated behind the wheel.  Only one seat is available beside him, and there isn’t much room in the backseat.  Much to my overwhelming relief, Rowena suggests that Bobby should sit in the front and she’ll sit in the back with Castiel and me.  I’m not completely sure if she did that because she just likes us, or if she somehow knows that I would rather be attacked by my new adoring fans than squeeze myself into the backseat with our mentor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, the very instant we get inside and close the doors, the driver peels out of the train station and into the looming city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Into our new home until the Hundredth Hunger Games begin.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Training Center is a massive skyscraper located in the middle of the city.  It’s taller than any other building I’ve seen so far, and as we stand outside its front doors, I can’t help but feel like a puny ant cowering before a hungry predator.  Everything starts here, and I suddenly long for the blissful privacy of the train.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We take the fancy glass elevator up to the ninth floor, to the apartment we’ll be staying in for the time being.  There are twelve separate apartment floors—one for each district—but there are more than twelve buttons.  When I ask Rowena what those floors are, she tells me that there’s a rooftop garden—a place where we’re allowed to go up and get some fresh air—and an underground gymnasium.  That is where we’ll spend our training days; the mere thought of it is enough to give me anxious goosebumps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of all the luxurious things I’ve seen today, the apartment takes the cake.  No questions asked.  Dark marble floors that are so pristine I can practically see my reflection span the entire level, and by entire level, I mean an expansive stretch of living space so large that it has to be ten times the size of my house back home.  One of the back walls is entirely glass, allowing for a breathtaking view of the vast sky and the blinking lights of the Capitol skyscrapers.  Intricate chandeliers hang from the tall, vaulted ceilings and illuminate everything as far as the eye can see.  A glass dining table sits in the middle of the apartment, surrounded by chairs so soft and plush that it takes every bit of willpower to not instantly run over and jump into them.  And this doesn’t even include our own private quarters, according to Rowena.  Just like on the train, we have our own bedrooms, bathrooms, wardrobes, anything we could possibly want.  The Capitol really does spare no expense when it comes to these kinds of things, huh?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evening has fallen so, much to my disappointment, it’s time to eat again.  I mean, I’m still hungry and all, but I would rather not spend another agonizingly long time trying to make small talk with Rowena while Bobby stares me down like he’s hunting me and Castiel refuses to speak to anyone.  Maybe now that we’re off the train and in the Capitol, though, it won’t be as bad.  The stress of travel is out of the way, and now we can just focus on what’s to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll admit one thing.  I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of gorging myself with this incredible food that we’re provided.  If I’m lucky, I might even be able to put on some pounds before training, too.  I’m not stick thin, but I’m certainly not bulky, either.  I don’t want to give the other tributes a reason to target me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s why I’m relieved to see Castiel picking out a plate of food.  It’s not a lot, but at least he’s planning to eat.  He’s much skinnier than I am, so if for some reason the others skip over me at first glance, they definitely won’t skip over him.  He’s going to need all the extra strength he can get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow morning you’ll be getting up bright and early for your prep teams,”  Rowena tells us as we eat beneath one of the many chandeliers twinkling in the light.  “It’s going to be a long day, so make sure you eat plenty and get to bed early.  We want you to look </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the parade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After that is when things get serious,”  Bobby adds on.  I don’t know why he insists on staring at me.  “You only get three days to train with everyone before your private sessions with the Gamemakers.  That’s when they’ll score you.  Better scores mean more sponsors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, speaking of, are you ever gonna tell us how to train properly and, you know, actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>survive</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”  I snap before, once again, I have time to realize how harsh I sound.  I just can’t stand our mentor’s crypticism.  Tell me what to do, and I’ll get it done.  Stop beating around the bush and get to the point.  I want to live.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In time,”  Bobby replies, cutting off Rowena’s scolding remark to me.  “Right now it’s not important.  We just got here, so take a load off.  Relax.  Usually you kids aren’t so eager to jump right in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we’re not your usual batch of kids.”  I notice Castiel has stopped picking at his food and is now trying to spare me a glance without drawing too much attention to himself.  “I have a family to get home to.  Castiel has a family to get home to, and I’d rather not do it in a body bag.  So no offense, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I’d be more than happy to </span>
  <em>
    <span>jump right in</span>
  </em>
  <span> if it means we have a better chance of getting out of here alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence that falls over the table is almost unbearable.  Rowena is looking at me like I have caterpillars crawling out of my ears.  Castiel manages to cast me his fleeting glance before drawing a trembling breath and returning his scattered attention to his plate.  Bobby hasn’t so much as blinked since I started griping at him, but I don’t see anger or resentment in his eyes.  It’s definitely not pride, though, either.  I can’t predict what’s going to come out of his mouth next, but I’m not intimidated by him anymore, not like I was when I first met him on the train.  Either he instructs us on how to survive, or I’ll find someone else who will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, after what seems like a century, Bobby nods his head, his expression still unreadable.  “We’ll start tomorrow, after the parade,”  he says.  “I won’t see you much before then, so be ready to work once we get back up here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I might be hallucinating due to the aftermath of all the anxiety I’ve endured today, but I swear I see Castiel smiling faintly down at the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our plan is set.  Tomorrow morning—near dawn, much to my dismay—we will be woken up and shipped off to some other building in the Capitol, where we’ll meet our prep teams and they will make us nice and pretty for the tribute parade.  I’m afraid it’s going to involve a lot of painful plucking and waxing, but I try not to worry too much about it now.  Throughout the course of the day, we’ll also meet our personal stylists and discuss what we’ll be wearing for the parade.  Then comes the dressing up, the makeup applying, the Capitol-esque styling, and eventually, the parade itself.  What I’m most excited for, though, is returning to our apartment afterwards and finally receiving survival advice from our mentor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I can make it through the day without snapping or completely losing my mind, anyway.  I have a feeling it’s going to try every last bit of my patience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After we eat, Rowena tells us to consider going to bed soon.  She doesn’t force us, just heavily suggests we do.  I hate to admit it, but she might be growing on me a little.  Just a little.  Never thought I’d say that about someone from the Capitol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I thought my room on the train was impressive enough, but this one is a whole different story.  There’s a panel in the shower that has a massive array of buttons that are oh-so screaming at me to press, but I manage to restrain myself.  I don’t want to end up drowning in bubbles or flooding the entire apartment.  The bed is large enough to fit at least ten people, and the sheets look even softer and more divine than the one on the train.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, maybe this isn’t so bad after all.  Maybe I could get used to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite it being late at night, though, I’m far from tired.  I thought for sure I’d be exhausted by now, considering I was just at the reaping in District 9 this morning—God, was that really this morning?  This has been the longest day of my life.  How is that even possible?  It feels like these past few hours have been dragging by at the pace of a snail.  I can’t believe everything that has happened just </span>
  <em>
    <span>today</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  It’s insane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no point in lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling and willing my racing mind to calm itself down.  My thoughts will only wander more, falling into deep rabbit holes of uncertainty and apprehension, and that won’t do me any good, either.  With nothing left to do and not knowing how to fix my issues, I find myself leaving my room to wander the now dim and silent apartment.  Maybe walking around will pacify my distress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone else has gone to bed, or at least just retreated to their own rooms.  The tranquil stillness hums in my ears.  Not even the distant sounds of the city leak through the walls and break the silence.  Most of the lights have turned off, all except for a few scattered wall lamps that emanate a soft, soothing glow, just enough for me to see where I’m walking.  It’s like I’m alone in the world, the only living soul left in this apartment.  Part of me is on edge by the quiet, but the other part of me relishes in it.  It’s quite reposeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although I’m rather enjoying the food and luxury we’re receiving, I can’t help but feel uncomfortably out of place in this big city.  I’ve lived in a grains district my entire life.  I grew up in an old farmhouse that had floors that creaked and paint that chipped off in the slightest gust of wind.  I’ve worked in a vast, expansive wheat field for years, where I couldn’t see anything but the blue sky above and the peaks of the hills that rose over the land.  I’m a countryside boy, plain and simple.  I thrive in the empty land, not the condensed city where skyscrapers jut up into the air and cave in all around you.  There are constantly people everywhere.  There are tall buildings everywhere.  I don’t belong.  It doesn’t feel right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How am I going to get through these next few days?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so lost in my fretful thoughts that I don’t hear the muffled footsteps approaching until I see something move out of the corner of my eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel starts when I turn to look at him.  He must not have seen me, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,”  I say with a smile.  Now would be an excellent time to finally talk to him.  I’ve been waiting since we got off the train.  “Couldn’t sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try not to get discouraged when he doesn’t answer me, but it’s difficult.  He merely drops his head, arms wrapped around his stomach, and lifts his shoulders in a feeble shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take that as a yes,”  I chuckle to fill the uneasy silence.  It looks like he smiles again, so faint it’s barely noticeable, but I’m not sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know I’m probably overthinking it, but I’m starting to worry that I did something wrong.  We’re alone for the first time all day.  Rowena isn’t breathing down our necks.  Bobby isn’t chastising us.  Why does he still seem so afraid to talk to me?  We’re on the same side.  I’m not going to hurt him, and I wouldn’t ever want to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I press my luck and take a few steps closer to him.  Maybe if I make him smile more, or even laugh a little, he’ll start to warm up to me.  I’m sure he’s just scared, and I don’t blame him in the slightest.  Scared about what happened at the reaping.  Scared that we were taken from our home district and sent away to the custody of the Capitol.  Scared about the parade tomorrow, the prospect of training, the looming Games themselves.  He has every right to be scared, but I want nothing more than to ease his concern right now, or at least give it my best shot.  I don’t like seeing him so silently distraught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All of this is pretty crazy, huh?”  I ask.  I still try to smile at him, but he isn’t looking at me.  “Weird to think that we woke up in our own beds this morning.  Now we’re in an entirely different part of the country and struggling to please a woman with eyelashes the size of my fingers and a guy who would probably rather be anywhere else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, he just barely cracks a smile of his own.  Now his preoccupied gaze has drifted to the wall of windows that overlooks the Capitol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An idea strikes me when I see him staring out at the city lights.  It might not work, but it’s worth a shot.  Anything to make him feel more at peace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanna go up to the roof?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart skips a beat when his bright blue eyes finally meet mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can get some fresh air, look at the stars, laugh at the Capitol people parading through the streets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, he smiles bigger than I’ve ever seen.  It’s still weak and not completely there, but I’ll take what I can get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drops his head again for the briefest of moments, smiling down at his feet, before glancing back up to look at me.  “Okay,”  he murmurs, so soft I almost miss it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Words can’t describe how happy I am to hear him speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of us pad along the pristine marble floors, our dull footsteps the only noise in the apartment.  We’re careful not to be too loud, for I have no idea if we’re actually allowed to be wandering around this late at night.  Still, whether or not that’s true, the elevator works.  After I press the call button, it takes but a few moments for the sleek glass elevator to rise to the ninth floor and open its doors, allowing us inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This almost feels rebellious, sneaking out of our apartment to scope out the rooftop garden at nighttime.  I thought for sure we’d be locked in here until morning, but apparently not.  I suppose that might seem too suspicious and overly controlling, even for the Capitol, if they caged us in our own temporary apartments like prisoners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, in the grand scheme of things, we really are prisoners.  Just not in the traditional sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m excited to see what awaits us on the roof, though, and judging by the small smile that still adorns Castiel’s face, he is, too.  I’m hoping it’ll give us a sense of freedom, even if it’s only brief.  It’s almost difficult to breathe in the condensed city.  I miss the open air, the open land, of District 9, and with any luck, standing atop the towering Training Center and being able to gaze up at the stars will give us a little taste of home, the one that’s so far away it doesn’t even seem real anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We take the elevator up to the rooftop.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The breeze is cool, refreshing, and the twinkling stars dotting the inky black sky above begin to calm my frayed nerves in an instant.  It’s blissfully quiet up here.  Not as quiet as the apartment—out here we can hear the wind and the distant sounds of the bustling city—but in a way, it’s almost more tranquil.  Wind chimes gently clink against one another, singing soft melodies.  Pots and troughs of various flowers and ferns are lined up against the back walls of the rooftop.  Nothing too outrageous, but it’s just enough greenery in this city of metal and steel to remind me of home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the fresh, crisp air.  It revitalizes me in a heartbeat.  It’s so open up here, so wonderfully spacious and not crowded with people or expensive items.  No, it’s just a strip of floor, a railing blocking the edge, and a never-ending view of the world around us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a word, Castiel wanders up to the railing at the edge of the roof, leaning against it and gazing out at the panorama of the Capitol.  I join him, finding myself unable to speak, because it’s like we’re on top of the world.  I don’t know what I could possibly say that would fit this moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The city looks like it goes on for miles.  Rows upon rows of tall skyscrapers fill our entire view, some of them dark and devoid of life and others still glimmering with light and vitality.  Cars occupy almost every single road.  I even see specks of people strolling down the sidewalks, like tiny ants, and we’re the giants watching their every move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But above all the hustle and bustle is the endless night sky.  The crescent moon shines down on us, a sliver of silver in the pool of darkness.  Bright stars are everywhere, some clusters forming constellations I’ve never even seen before.  It’s a breathtaking array of the universe beyond our world, the beautiful, unexplored place that no one has touched or interfered with yet.  Maybe that’s why I love the stars, the moon, the vast sky so much.  They reside in the only place that the Capitol can’t control.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m brought back to reality when I hear Castiel heave a sigh.  He’s still staring out at the city, his expression glazed but definitely not troubled or distressed like before.  He looks pensive, lost in his thoughts, and I can only wonder what’s running through his mind right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you doing okay, Castiel?”  I decide to ask him.  Might as well get right to the point.  “You haven’t really said anything all day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes for a moment, seeming to be pondering his options, then gives me an odd merge of a shrug and a nod.  That about sums of my feelings about today, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can talk to me, you know.  You don’t have to feel weird or be nervous.”  Either he’s purposely avoiding my eyes, or he somehow hasn’t noticed me looking at him.  “We’re a team now.  We’re gonna help each other get through this.  That’s what teammates do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He purses his lips, dropping his gaze down past the railing that’s keeping us secured on the rooftop, and I can’t ignore the dejected sinking of my heart.  I thought he would be more willing to talk once we were safe and alone up here.  Maybe I was wrong to assume so quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With another deep, unsteady breath, Castiel lifts his hand from the cold railing and reaches out into the open air.  It abruptly halts, as if some invisible force is preventing his hand from going any further.  I must have a look of bewilderment on my face because when he turns his head to finally meet my eyes again, he’s smiling.  Just a tad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Force field,”  he says softly, bringing his hand back to the railing.  “No jumping off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not all that surprised.  If I wasn’t so adamant about returning home to my family and keeping Castiel alive, I won’t lie and say that wouldn’t have been one of the things to cross my mind.  I’m sure it’s crossed a lot of tributes’ minds.  If you know for a fact that you’re not going to survive the Hunger Games, why wait to get your heart ripped out of your chest while it’s still beating or take a knife straight to the throat and choke to death on your own blood?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably a good thing,”  I remark.  That thought went dark really fast.  “Wouldn’t want to lose a precious tribute before the Games started, would they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel shakes his head.  “Have to save them all for the bloodbath,”  he murmurs, absentmindedly tracing a pattern on the railing with his finger.  “Gotta get a good show.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m glad he’s starting to feel comfortable enough around me to talk more.  I’m sure it’ll take a while for him to completely warm up—we just met today, after all—but we’re making progress.  I won’t push him.  He can take all the time he needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another bout of silence hangs in the air over our heads.  It’s not uneasy or strained, just quiet, contented.  He traces his pattern on the railing.  I gaze out at the boundless city, the serene night sky.  Then another thought strikes me, another thing for us to discuss while we have the free time to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think tomorrow’s gonna be like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses to think for a moment, then merely shrugs his shoulders once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hopefully we won’t do anything too painful.  I swear, if they try to rip any hair out of me, I’ll start swinging,”  I say, and I can’t help but smile when I notice one creeping onto his face, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably just lots of outfits and makeup,”  he eventually agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still.  I really hope they don’t put us in a loaf of bread or stick those Rowena eyelashes on us.  I won’t mind a little higher-class style, but nothing too crazy.  Sam would never let me live it down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wasn’t expecting to receive such a pang in my tight chest at something as simple as mentioning my little brother.  I suppose I’ve been so preoccupied all afternoon and evening that I’d started to forget how I ended up here, and now everything is flooding back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t regret what I did.  I don’t regret volunteering for him.  Not in the slightest.  I would never forgive myself if I let Sam be whisked away to the Capitol to compete in this awful fight to the death.  Even imagining him standing on this rooftop is enough to tug at my heartstrings.  He’s only twelve.  He has no business being involved in something like the Hunger Games.  Some might argue and say I don’t either, but what’s done is done.  I’m so much more at ease knowing he’s safe and sound back home, far away from this whole mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder what he’s doing right now.  Is he with our parents?  Are they all sitting together, the house around them dark and quiet, like every family who gives up a tribute does?  Are they wondering where I am, what I’m doing, if I’m okay?  I wish I could tell them that I’m safe in the apartments of the Training Center, that I’m as okay as I can be, but I can’t.  There’s no way to contact them, and I’m left to suffer with the desire to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel heaves another sigh, looking like he has a thousand things to say but can’t figure out how to articulate them.  I notice his jaw tighten, just ever so slightly, as his forlorn gaze falls past the railing yet again.  “That was really brave of you, Dean.”  His voice is so soft it’s almost lost in the breeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the first time I’ve heard him say my name.  Why am I so happy and relieved about something as little as that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What you did for him,”  Castiel goes on.  “That was really brave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The spark of happiness is fleeting.  A whole new wave of pain clutches my heart with icy fingers, makes my stomach churn, as he turns his head to look at me.  The glint in his bright blue eyes tells me he sincerely meant what he said.  That what I did back in the square, at the reaping, was truly an act of bravery.  And deep down I know it was, but hearing him say it somehow swamps me with a confusing mix of reassurance and affliction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t let him come here.”  I can’t stop a trembling sigh from rattling in my chest.  “I just couldn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel merely nods, so subtly it’s almost imperceptible, and returns his attention back to the glimmering city.  We seem to have swapped sentiments.  He’s now the one who appears still and undisturbed, and I’m the one racked with agonizing inner turmoil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you miss them?”  he asks me when the silence grows unbearable.  “Your family?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I swallow the lump in my throat, worried my voice isn’t going to work anymore.  “A lot, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods again.  He’s back to tracing patterns on the railing.  “Me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m struck with a twinge of guilt, of insufferable heartache.  My conversation with his little brother, with Gabriel Novak, swarms my frantic mind.  How he came to visit me to tell me what happened in the past, with their older brother and his demise in the Games.  How I promised Gabriel I would do everything in my power to prevent that from happening again.  Nothing has changed about that, but do I tell Castiel?  Do I tell him that his little brother visited me in the Justice Building?  Do I tell him about the promise I made?  It might help him trust me more, might give us an extra boost toward the possibility of winning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it also might not.  He might not like the fact that his little brother and I made a promise behind his back.  Granted, it’s a promise to aid in his survival, but still.  I don’t know him completely yet.  I don’t know how he might react to something like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I decide to keep it simple.  I don’t want to hide my meeting with Gabriel forever—talking about his family when he misses them as much as I miss mine might make him feel better—but I won’t share everything we discussed.  Not yet, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your little brother came to visit me before we left,”  I say, trying my best to put on a smile when he turns back to me with wide eyes and raised brows.  “He just wanted to wish me luck, since we’re in this together, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something different about the glint in Castiel’s gaze now.  It’s not entirely unreadable, but I can’t quite discern what kind of storm is going on behind those bright blue irises.  All I know is that he looks perturbed, and I might have a hunch as to why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a long while before he musters up the strength to speak again.  With his disquieted stare struggling to stay focused on the city, his lip quivers, and he wrings his hands together over the railing.  “Dean, can I tell you something?”  He sounds absolutely terrified; it hurts to hear his voice tremor like that.  “It’s a lot, but if you really wanna know why I haven’t said much, this is the reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,”  I tell him without hesitation.  “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel draws another breath, pressing his hands into the railing, but I still see them shaking.  “Six years ago, when I was just ten, my older brother Michael was reaped for the Hunger Games.  He didn’t come back home.”  In the pale moonlight, I notice his eyes are beginning to glisten with tears.  “I still remember how it happened.  I was sitting with my family in our living room, TV all staticky, and some girl from District One threw a knife at his back.  Then his chest after he turned around.  Then his throat.  I think he was dead long before that, though.  She was just barbaric.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gabriel was only six.  He was too young to really understand what had happened, but I wasn’t.  I still remember the day they shipped his body back home.  I still remember the day that the girl from District One, the one who killed him, went on her Victory Tour with her partner, and they stopped here to give their speech and I had to look into the cold eyes of the person who murdered my brother.  She wasn’t sorry.  She didn’t care that she tore apart a family, traumatized a ten-year-old and a six-year-old for life.  She won the Games, and that was all that mattered to her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A strangled cry catches in his throat, but he doesn’t let it escape, not even when the first tear trickles down his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t sleep for months.”  His voice is getting more and more strained with every word he speaks.  “I would wake up crying and screaming for him to come home.  I still have nightmares about it sometimes.  About those knives getting thrown into him.  About seeing his pale, lifeless face when they shipped him back.  About the same thing happening to me if I was ever reaped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses as another tear falls from his eyes, but it’s to let out a dry chuckle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How unlucky, right?  My parents didn’t allow me or Gabriel to take tesserae so we would have less of a chance of getting our name drawn, so they wouldn’t have to lose another son and we wouldn’t have to lose another brother.  That worked out great, didn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not laughing anymore.  His lip trembles harder.  His tears fall faster.  He tries to fight it, struggles to keep another choked sob from escaping his throat, but it’s futile.  I can’t even imagine the pain he must be feeling, the pain he went through when he was younger.  Gabriel told me what happened, but not nearly as detailed as this.  God, his poor family.  Why did this have to happen to them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I want to say something to comfort him, but he isn’t finished.  “The same thing is happening all over again,”  he whimpers.  “I’m going down the same path my brother did six years ago.  He rode the same train.  He stayed in this same apartment.  Everything we do from here on out, he did, too, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Buried in the ground somewhere back home.  And I just know it’s gonna happen to me next.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach drops.  Suddenly the endless view is making me ill.  “Castiel—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me!  I’m not strong.  I’m not crafty or quick or good at making decisions.  I’m so thin and fragile you could snap me in half without even trying.  Some Career is gonna take one look at me and decide that I’m their mid-afternoon snack.  I’m not cut out for this.  I’m so scared.  I can’t do this.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do this!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Another strangled cry echoes through the still night air; it shatters my heart into pieces.  He covers his mouth with a trembling hand, then frantically wipes the tears from his cheeks and sucks in an unsteady breath.  “I’m sorry,”  he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About what?”  I say.  “You have nothing to be sorry about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.  It was just a lot to throw on you.  You don’t know me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I do now.”  I’m not sure what possesses me to do it, but I reach across the railing and gently rest my hand on his.  His skin is cold but soft beneath my touch, and when the distress in his expression seems to lessen, I notice my own anguish beginning to dwindle, as well.  “We’re gonna be okay, Castiel.  I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.  I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t turned away from me yet.  His teary bright blue eyes are piercing into my skull, but I can’t bring myself to look away, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t be any good,”  he says, so quiet I can barely hear him.  “I’ll just drag you down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care.  I’m not gonna leave here without you.  You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My lungs start to burn when he finally drops his gaze back down to the railing, and I realize my breathing had shallowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you being so nice to me?”  he asks, a borderline whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stop a small smile from tugging on my lips as I give his hand a reassuring squeeze.  “I have a knack for seeing the potential in people before they see it themselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dark out here, but I swear I see a faint tint of pink flush onto Castiel’s cheeks, a feeble smile of his own adorning his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I meant what I said, Castiel,”  I go on.  “I’m not gonna let what happened to your brother happen to you, too.  You and your family don’t deserve that kind of pain again.  I’m gonna do everything I can to keep you safe, and I mean that.  I’m gonna do everything in my power to get you back home to your family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lip is starting to quiver again, but this time, he doesn’t look distraught.  He looks grateful.  “Thank you, Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.  We’re a team, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I only get a nod in response, but he must be exhausted.  It’s been an excruciatingly long day, and I’m sure he was drained enough as it was before he told me about his past.  The poor thing is still so shaken up about it, and I don’t blame him one bit.  I’m going to do everything I can to keep him alive in that arena, no matter what happens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either we both walk out of there alive, or we go down together.  Preferably the former, though.  I think we would both prefer the former.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath, savoring the fresh night air.  I’m sure it’s getting late.  We should probably get to bed so we’re not exhausted when Rowena comes pounding on our doors at dawn.  We’re going to need all the sleep we can get if we’re going to survive the events even leading up to the Games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I give Castiel’s hand a pat, gentle but comforting, and tell him we should get some rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna stay up here for a bit,”  he says, gazing out at the city lights.  “Try to clear my head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, but don’t stay up too long,”  I warn with a smile.  “Rowena might have a fit if she sees dark circles under your eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of us share a chuckle for the first time, weak but still gratifying.  It’s almost like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.  He felt safe enough around me to share a rather personal story, one that traumatized him for life.  He didn’t have to do that, but he wanted to confide in me, and I’m thankful he did.  We might not be best friends or anything, but I’d like to consider us allies now, two people thrust into a terrifying situation where we can only rely on one another.  We may have just met earlier, but I trust him.  He seems to trust me.  All is going as well as it can be, and for that, I can’t be more relieved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as the elevator rises to the rooftop and opens its doors, I hear Castiel calling back to me, his voice soft but laced with gentle affection.  “You can call me Cas, if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I match his warmhearted smile until the elevator doors close and I’m taken back down to the silence of the ninth floor.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’ve experienced some torturous pain before.  One time, when I was first starting out in the wheat fields, I didn’t quite know how to properly use a sickle to make the process of harvesting seed heads easier.  I ended up slicing my palm open.  I think you could hear my screams all throughout the district.  It took three people to get the bleeding to stop and calm me down enough so the town doctor could start dressing the wound.  After that, I was always extra careful around sickles.  I never wanted to undergo that kind of agony again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turns out, getting your eyebrow hairs forcefully ripped out of your face is just as painful, if not worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on this cold metal table in the Remake Center while people from the Capitol poke at my arms, prod at my ribs, try to figure out how to make me look presentable for the parade later today.  Far too long, and I’m honestly surprised I haven’t lashed out at them yet.  My eyebrows are throbbing.  I probably look insane.  Did they even leave any hair up there?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I overheard one of the members of my prep team—her hair is neon green and covered in gaudy sparkles—say something about a pair of fuzzy caterpillars taking a nap on my face before they started plucking my eyebrows out.  I should feel offended, but how can I when it looks like she has plums for lips?  Someone should probably tell her to go easy on the injections.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to fill my mind with pleasant thoughts while the prep team lathers some citrus-scented foam on my face, then my neck, and practically every bit of skin they’re planning to expose for the parade, which hopefully won’t be a lot.  According to them, it’s supposed to remove all the layers of dead skin and grime to “make me glow.”  Although, judging by how the guy with the bright purple hair and sparkly gold tattoos is almost reflective in the lights hanging above us, I’m genuinely afraid to see what I look like when they rinse this stuff off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not even noon, and I’m already exhausted.  Rowena, as I expected, knocked on my door at the crack of dawn, and I’d only just relaxed enough to get some sleep.  She practically had to drag me out of bed and plop me down at the table for a quick breakfast, and even then, I barely had time to eat a piece of toast and a few bites of oatmeal before she put us in a car and shipped us off downtown to the Remake Center.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a long ride, so I didn’t have much time to talk to Castiel—or Cas, I guess, since he said I could call him that.  He looked significantly better than he had the previous day.  Maybe it was the better food, the comfier beds, the relief of having a safe place to stay for a few days.  Or maybe it was because he decided to share a personal story with me, and I gave him trust and reassurance in return.  I know that made me feel better, anyway.  Whatever the case, I’m glad he looks more at ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder how his prepping is going.  We were separated the moment we arrived at the Remake Center, dragged off into the custody of our individual prep teams.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>All </span>
  </em>
  <span>the tributes are here, actually, and while that thought makes me uncomfortable, I can’t see any of them.  There are thick curtains blocking off everyone from one another’s view.  It’s just my prep team and me in this one section, and that’s what I try to focus on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just when I thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, the lady with the neon green hair furrows her equally neon green brows.  While the other two rinse the foam off me—I will admit that my skin does feel kind of nice—she retrieves a paper strip from the table of supplies nearby and whispers something to the guy with the purple hair, pointing at my bare chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are only three baby hairs on my chest, if even.  Can’t they just leave them?  They’re barely noticeable.  They’re so short and borderline blond.  They’re impossible to see unless you’re purposely looking for them.  Why would they bother—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too late.  The guy with the purple hair drizzles a hot waxy liquid across the small patch, pats the paper strip over it, and rips it off before I have a chance to prepare myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I miss the sickle incident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*  *  *  *  *</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel like a newborn baby.  My skin is red and itchy in the places my prep team yanked hair follicles out of.  It throbs with every beat of my heart.  They put some kind of grease and lotion on it before they sent me off to a secluded room to meet my stylist, but if it was supposed to help with the stinging, it’s not working.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but wonder who my stylist is as I sit alone in this quiet room, skin prickling and head pounding.  Will they be like the lady with the neon green hair?  The guy with the purple hair and shiny tattoos?  It’s impossible to predict Capitol fashion because it seems to change every week.  One week those long eyelashes are in style, but the next it’s lip injections or wigs so tall they scrape the ceiling.  Whoever they are, I hope they don’t dress me up in something so bizarre that I won’t be able to walk or see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m almost startled out of my seat when the door creaks open and a short, relatively stocky man glides into the room.  He looks so normal compared to my prep team that I’m sure my jaw drops down when I see him.  He’s clad in a sleek black suit and tie, nothing like the flashy green dress that one lady was wearing.  His dark hair looks like it hasn’t been altered or dyed at all.  The only thing that alludes to a hint of Capitol fashion is the black eyeliner around his eyes.  The lines go past his eyelids and form a simple shape beneath his temples, but overall, he’s shockingly tame.  And I’ll admit that he doesn’t look half bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Dean,”  he says, his voice deeper than I expected and tinged with an accent I don’t quite recognize.  “I’m Crowley, your stylist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An interesting name, that’s for sure.  We </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the Capitol, after all, but he seems nice enough so far.  Maybe I won’t have to pretend to like him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello,”  I say, watching as he taps his chin, already taking note of how I look.  I wish I had clothes or even a robe to hide behind, but my prep team wouldn’t allow it.  Something about our stylists needing to see everything—and I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>—in order to best dress us according to our physique.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The people of the Capitol really have no shame, do they?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is embarrassing.  I can feel the heat creeping into my face as Crowley scans me from head to toe.  He doesn’t prod at me like the prep team did, just silently observes; I don’t know which is worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After what seems like hours—when in reality it’s more like seconds—Crowley thoughtfully hums to himself and nods toward the robe that’s hanging from a hook on the wall.  “You seem uneasy,”  he remarks.  “Put that on, and we’ll chat over lunch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t need to tell me twice.  I snatch the silky gray robe off the hook and slip it on as he strolls toward the door.  He leads me to another private sitting area just a few steps down the pristine corridor, but this one offers a marvelous view of the city.  The room is small but alight with warm sunlight and decorated with plush furniture.  My stylist takes a seat in one of the velvety chairs, then gestures for me to do the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must admit,”  Crowley begins as I sink into the cushioned seat, “I was very moved when I watched the recap of District Nine’s reaping.  You did a very courageous thing for your brother, Dean.  I’m impressed.  Family loyalty often doesn’t overcome the power of the reapings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not quite sure what to say in response, but I manage a nod and murmur a thanks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know people of the Capitol aren’t always the most caring or likable—”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s not wrong about that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“—but believe me when I say that I’m here to help you.  I take pride in my work, but I always try to accommodate my tributes, too.  You’re still human.  You’re not a piece of meat for everyone to ogle at.  I’m here to help you look your best, but I’m also here to take some stress off your mind.  All you have to do is trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m taken aback by some of his words.  Usually when I saw stylist interviews in the past, all they seemed to care about was how attractive they made their tributes look.  They didn’t care about the tribute’s feelings or anything else that was going on in their life.  It was all about presentation.  Presentation and appearance are everything in the Capitol.  I’m not sure why Crowley wants to help me with things far past just my looks, but I suppose I can’t complain.  I could’ve gotten a much, </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>worse stylist who wanted to throw me into the parade half-naked to attract more sponsors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I can’t hold back a scoff when he mentions trusting him.  “Not like I have much of a choice, do I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, he merely cracks a smile, an amused smirk, like that’s what he was expecting me to say.  “Not really,”  he acknowledges, “but I still want to give you the option.  Good working relationships are all about mutual respect, aren’t they, Dean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hate to admit that that elicited a smile out of me.  Something about my stylist’s charm is difficult to dislike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A large platter of food is brought into the room by one of the Remake Center’s servants—I think they’re called Avoxes—and set on the table before us.  A juicy chicken, more buttered rolls, a bowl of delectable fruit, a side of leafy green salad, and a slice of cheesecake for dessert.  It looks—and smells—absolutely divine.  I start to forget that I’m supposed to be talking with my stylist while I chow down and satisfy my grumbling stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Dean,”  Crowley goes on.  He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m eating like a starved animal.  “I spent a lot of time thinking about what your costumes should be for the parade this evening.  My partner Meg, who’s the stylist for your fellow tribute, and I spent hours pondering over a lot of different options.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause in our conversation as I stop to swallow a mouthful of steaming chicken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you come up with?”  I ask.  At first I was terrified to know, picturing all sorts of gaudy or overly sexual costumes that I would be forced into, but now that I’ve met my stylist and his rather conventional fashion taste, I find myself genuinely curious to see what his ideas are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley smirks again, his dark eyes glimmering in the sunlight that’s pooling into the room.  “Well, after watching the recap of the reaping, Meg made a comment on how fiery your determination was.  It portrayed you as powerful and unafraid, a force not to be reckoned with.  That got us thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you know, it’s customary for costumes to reflect the districts’ main industry.  For Nine, that’s grains and harvest.  But that isn’t cutthroat or determined like you are.  We want to do something different, something that isn’t a boring loaf of bread or a featureless wheat stalk.  We want Panem and the other tributes to know that you aren’t here to mess around.  You’re here to win and go home to the brother you courageously volunteered for, and you’re not going to let anything stop you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll admit it without scorn now.  My stylist is like nobody I’ve ever met from the Capitol—and that’s a fantastic thing—and I can’t be more grateful that he’s representing me.  All the horrible things that my prep team did to me don’t matter anymore.  I’m happier than I’ve been all day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, Dean,”  Crowley says with a sly grin as he leans forward, “do you also raise cattle in your district?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I was skeptical of Crowley’s cattle idea at first.  Livestock isn’t our district’s forte.  Besides, how is dressing to represent cattle going to look attractive or fiery or cutthroat like he told me he wanted to portray?  All I’m picturing is a zip-up cow uniform.  Not all that assertive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when he puts the finishing touches on the outfit I haven’t seen and tells me to turn around and look in the mirror, all the previous doubts and worries I had vanish in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look incredible.  The skintight and blindingly white pants catch my eye first.  Then the jet black combat boots that stop mid-shin.  Then the deep V-neck top that’s just as jet black—and when I say </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I mean it almost goes down to the middle of my stomach, exposing much more skin that I would’ve preferred, but I suppose my prep team was right to wax off those baby hairs.  It’s a striking outfit, certainly attention-grabbing and aggressive, but what astonishes me the most are the makeup and accessories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not over the top like I feared.  Smudged eyeliner, much like Crowley’s, brings out the green flecks in my eyes.  Small patches of glitter across my cheekbones reflect in the light every time I move my head.  My eyebrows are dark and sharply defined.  Fake gold earrings hang from my ears, loop around the helix.  And to really bring the whole cattle look together, a fake nose ring that’s a lot subtler than I anticipated, but I’ll admit it looks amazing with the rest of the outfit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t believe I’m saying this.  I absolutely love what I’m wearing.  Someone from the Capitol actually made me a normal costume, and it’s breathtaking.  I look stunning.  I look fierce.  I look ready to tackle the challenges that await, and I look ready to strike down anyone who stands in my way.  I’m so excited about it all that it’s actually making me giddy.  What is going on?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley grins as he watches me stare at myself in the mirror, wide-eyed and unable to believe that who I’m looking at is </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the ferocity I was hoping to achieve,”  he remarks.  “What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes me a moment to find words.  “It’s incredible,”  I manage to gasp.  “I never thought I’d like something like this, but I do.  I really do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear.”  My stylist grabs a comb and a can of hairspray from the table then.  “Just one more little thing, and you’ll be ready for the parade.  Close your eyes for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do as he says, and I flinch when he combs back the front part of my hair and blasts it with suffocating hairspray.  He repeats that a few more times, ruffling my hair as he goes, and when he’s done, my hair is tousled and disheveled and crunchy with product.  But, I was right not to question him.  With how messy it looks, it’s almost made the entire outfit ten times more attractive and sultrier than before.  I don’t know how he does it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost time for the parade to begin.  Crowley takes me down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, where the horses and tribute chariots are being prepared for use.  I follow him to the ninth chariot in line, which is, of course, the one Cas and I will be riding in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of, he hasn’t arrived yet.  I wonder what the holdup is.  I stand with Crowley next to the chestnut brown horses, anxiously crossing my arms over my chest when I glance around and, for the first time, see all the other tributes we’re going to be competing against.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of them are so much taller and bulkier than me.  I expected that, but actually seeing it for myself makes my stomach twist into knots.  Only a few take note of my arrival, but I avoid their piercing, judgmental stares nonetheless.  We may all seem fine and dandy now, in the safety of the parade, but in a little over a few days, nothing will stop them from turning to murder.  That tall boy from District 6 with the charming smile will not be smiling when someone puts a knife in his back, or he puts a knife in theirs.  That boy from District 11 who’s laughing at a joke his fellow tribute made will certainly not be laughing when twenty-two other people will be out for their blood.  It’s so bizarrely surreal, being in a room with these people, because in a few weeks, almost all of them will be dead.  And that might include me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let them intimidate you,”  Crowley whispers to me.  I must not have done a very good job of swallowing my sudden terror.  “You look better than most of them, anyway.  Show them who’s in charge.  Remember, you’re fierce and determined.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right.  Fierce and determined.  Fierce and determined.  That’s what I am.  Not terrified and paralyzed with nauseating fear.  Fierce and determined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hands and legs have just started to tremble when I spot Cas making his way toward the chariot, following behind a woman whose dark hair and daunting dark clothes make me think of Crowley’s outfit, just turned up a notch toward the menacing side.  She must be Meg, the stylist partner Crowley mentioned.  She definitely looks fierce, anyway.  I can see where they drew inspiration for our costumes from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas breaks into a relieved smile when he sees me, and I can only imagine I match it.  He’s dressed identically to me, but looking at it on another person is an entirely different story.  His bright blue eyes pop with the sheer intensity of the eyeliner, the glitter, the black top.  They’re like a clear sky.  His dark hair is tousled and messy, too.  The two of us are certainly an aggressive-looking duo.  We’re sure to grab the crowd’s attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look great,”  I tell him as he comes to a stop in front of me.  “I didn’t think your eyes could get any bluer, but I guess I was wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile widens as he drops his head.  It’s dim down here, but I swear I see another tint of pink flush onto his face, right below the glitter on his cheekbones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t look half bad yourself,”  he says when he finally glances back up, the warmth of the smile shining in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Half bad?  I don’t think I’ve ever had a pair of tributes more attractive than you two,”  Meg intervenes.  “Seriously, I don’t care what everyone’s preferences are.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>is gonna be in love when they see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, she’s a woman who speaks her mind, isn’t she?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Cas wasn’t blushing before, then he definitely is now.  I can’t even imagine what kinds of conversations they had behind closed doors, especially with how little of a verbal filter Meg has.  I can’t help but like her, though.  She’s the one who started our whole fierce and determined theme, and she did an excellent job with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s time for us to mount the chariots.  A voice on the speakers overhead announces it in a clear, booming tone.  Cas flashes me an apprehensive glance—which I return with an encouraging one—as Crowley and Meg gesture for us to climb into the back of the ninth chariot.  It’s now or never.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I reach the step leading into our ride, Meg suddenly seizes my arm.  “Hold on a minute, sweetheart,”  she drawls, pulling me a few feet back.  “Your eyeliner’s a tad uneven.  Let me fix it real quick.  Apparently Crowley doesn’t know what a straight line is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, my hand’s a bit shaky today,”  Crowley retaliates, but the two of them smirk at each other nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg instructs me to stand still and uncaps an eyeliner pen she retrieved from her pocket.  Gently grabbing my chin, she tilts my head up and tells me to look at the ceiling.  I flinch when the cold liquid touches my skin, but I force myself to stay motionless while she fixes the line.  The last thing I need is a pen jabbing right into my eyeball.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s over before I know it.  “There you go,”  Meg says with a sly grin, giving me a hefty pat on the arm.  “Now you’re ready to win over the crowd.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I flash her an appreciative smile before turning back toward the chariot.  Cas hasn’t climbed into the back of it yet.  Instead, he’s standing by the step, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails, eyes wide, and it’s clear he’s been looking at me long before I turned around.  All he does when our gazes lock is drop his head.  That slight tint on his cheeks still hasn’t faded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have time to think anything of it.  The first chariots are beginning to journey out into the streets of the Capitol.  Crowley and Meg practically hoist us into the back of ours themselves, wishing us luck and telling us to make sure we smile as they do so.  It’s almost impossible to hear them over the deafening cheers and applause coming from the outside of the building, along with the bellowing of the country’s anthem, but I just barely make out Meg saying something about hands before the horses pulling our chariot start to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nearly stumbles as the chariot lurches forward, but I reach out and grab his arm to steady him just in time.  He looks like he’s going to be sick.  That smile he once had has long since vanished.  I’m nervous, too, of course—borderline paralyzed is more like it—but I’m trying to focus on how amazing we look, how much the crowd is going to adore us.  Our stylists outdid themselves with our outfits.  I want us to give this parade everything we’ve got, no matter how terrifying the whole thing is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be okay,”  I tell him as we near the main doors, the ones that lead out into the densely crowded streets.  “They’re gonna love us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg’s final suggestion before we left them behind flashes through my mind again.  I didn’t hear her completely, but it sounded like she wants us to hold hands.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe to display our sense of teamwork and cooperation.  Maybe to sell the fierce and determined duo look even more.  Whatever the case, she’s the professional.  She must think it’ll help us out.  Besides, I have to admit I would feel more at ease having someone to hold onto during this trip.  The chariot is bouncy, and judging by how insanely loud the crowd is, my knees might start to wobble the moment we’re under the spotlight.  Extra stability wouldn’t hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas shoots me a startled and bewildered look when I reach over and take his hand in mine, but when I tell him it was Meg’s idea, he starts to relax again.  Not a lot, mind you, but just enough so he’s not cutting off all the circulation in my fingers.  I was right, too.  An instant wave of solace floods through me with his hand squeezing back against my own, and it’s just in time for our chariot to roll into the streets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The roar of the crowd almost deafens me.  Blinding lights shine in my eyes.  Capitol citizens are absolutely everywhere, flocking the streets like a swarm of buzzing bees as they’re finally able to catch a glimpse of the tributes this year.  Many of them shriek and applaud with excitement when they see us, pointing at our striking attires and linked hands.  It’s overwhelming, to say the least, being stared at by thousands upon thousands of people under the heat of the setting sun and the intense spotlights, but it doesn’t take me very long to get used to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our stylists were right.  They </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>love us, and if we return that adoration, we might get more sponsors willing to send us materials that could keep us alive in the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I put on the brightest smile I can, gently nudging Cas to tell him to do the same, and the crowd goes crazy.  Some of them are even chanting my name—I can only imagine it’s because I’m a volunteer, and that almost never happens in the outlying districts—or chanting our district number.  For a fleeting moment, I see ourselves broadcast on the large screens hanging above the streets, and we look as breathtaking and thrilling as ever.  No wonder they’re losing their minds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone from the crowd tosses me a black rose, its soft petals still damp with dewdrops.  I catch it just before it falls out of my reach, find the person who threw it, and make sure to give them the most charming grin I can.  I think I spot someone else breaking their fall as our chariot continues down the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas has managed to catch himself a bright red rose and a small but pretty pink tulip.  He’s started to loosen up and gain more confidence, too, so with his free hand clutching those two flowers, he gives the crowd on his side an amiable wave.  Their screeches in response echo in my ringing ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is going so much better than I could have ever anticipated.  The thundering crowd and the triumphant anthem pound in my chest.  My heart is racing.  My blood is hot with adrenaline.  Slowly but surely, my smile becomes less forced and more genuinely exhilarated, and it only widens when I think about the possibility of our soon-to-be sponsors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We might actually have a chance in this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I receive another rose—this one is bright red like Cas’—as the chariot reaches the City Center.  All twelve chariots file into the loop of the Circle and come to a stop just before the president’s massive mansion.  As the music begins to end with its grand flourish, I spare a glance at Cas and find that he’s still smiling and completely breathless.  I didn’t realize how little I’d been breathing myself until I see him draw a trembling breath, and I fill my burning lungs with the crisp air of twilight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at me, bright blue eyes wide with a wild mix of shock and excitement, and I give him a nod, one that screams, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>We did it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  He doesn’t let go of my hand when silence hangs in the City Center for the brief moments before the president’s annual speech, and I don’t let go of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I barely hear the president’s welcoming words to the tributes.  There’s still a shrill ringing in my ears from the crowd, the music, my own blood pounding inside my skull.  The cameras pan around to show all the tributes one last time, and I can’t suppress a grin when I see our faces plastered on the big screens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The speech is short and sweet, just like always, and before I know it, the horses pull our chariot into the bottom level of the Training Center, where we’re finally allowed to dismount and relish the quiet after the parade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We really did it, and it feels incredible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As our chariot rolls to a stop, Cas and I practically have to peel our hands apart from all the sweat and tight gripping, but I don’t mind.  I think it boosted our reputation with the crowd </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>gave us both extra comfort and confidence, so all in all, it was a win-win.  I can’t help but smile, though, when Cas gives a feeble chuckle and massages the palm of his hand, his preoccupied gaze focused on the ground at our feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re swarmed by our prep teams and stylists in an instant.  They’re gushing praises and compliments, mostly about how fantastic we looked, but also how we carried ourselves in the chariot.  Apparently the way we acted should, with luck and hope, bring in a variety of sponsors, and hearing it come from people who have been in this horrible business for years only lifts my spirits higher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Rowena and Bobby join our crowd.  Rowena is essentially unintelligible as she sings praises about how great we were and hugs the life out of us.  Even Bobby manages to cough up a sincere compliment as he crosses his arms over his chest and flashes us a faint smirk.  Maybe now that he’s seen how capable we are, he’ll really be willing to aid in our survival.  He promised we would get started after the parade, anyway, and I find my excitement growing more and more intolerable by the minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Rowena and Bobby guide us to the elevator to take it up to our apartment on the ninth floor, I notice a few of the tributes casting us unnerving glares.  I try to ignore them, but it’s impossible to stop a shiver from running down my spine, even as the elevator doors close and seal us away in safety and silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t think Cas noticed them.  Good.  I don’t want to dampen his enthusiasm from our success at the parade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re told to get cleaned up before we eat.  I take one last look at myself in the mirror in my room before washing the makeup off and undressing to take a hot shower.  Part of me almost wanted to stay in that outfit all evening.  It was so imposing and eye-catching, but it feels so much better to rinse off the events of today.  I even try my luck at pressing one of the numerous buttons and am pleasantly surprised when a gentle stream of aromatic foam shoots out of the showerhead.  Now I’m going to smell like fresh flowers, and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.  I’ll go with a good thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas must have messed around with the button panel, too, because the moment I sit down next to him at the table, the marvelous scent of vanilla wafts off him.  I wonder what button that is.  I might have to try it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turns out the tributes’ stylists are more than welcome to stay in the apartment during preparation for the Games.  At least, that was what Rowena told me when I flashed puzzled glances at Crowley and Meg, who are planning to eat with us tonight.  It came as a shock at first, but I don’t mind all that much.  They’re both interesting people.  It might make for some equally interesting conversations for the next few days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As we eat, Bobby begins explaining basic survival methods based on his experience in the Games.  It’s difficult to focus both on gorging myself and making sure to pay attention to his advice, but I manage to pick up on the essentials, much to my relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’t light fires.  That’s basically sending up a beacon to your exact location.  If you absolutely must light a fire, make it brief, keep the smoke low, and stamp out all the embers when you’re done.  That way you’re not leaving a trail behind for someone to follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Water is extremely crucial.  Without water, you’re as good as dead.  Most backpacks in the Cornucopia—the main hub for all the supplies in the arena—contain small vials of iodine to purify any water you find.  No iodine, no water purification, no survival.  Otherwise, in rare cases, sponsors can send water, but never count on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stick to high ground as much as possible and as much as the terrain of the arena allows.  Since the arena is different every year, it’s impossible to plan out your route for sure, but high ground is essential for avoiding certain predators and any tributes who aren’t intelligent enough to look up above their heads.  Having the high ground is a great advantage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Always conserve and ration any food you have.  A lot of the backpacks contain tiny amounts of packaged food, so if you eat that in the first day and don’t know how to find food for yourself, then you’re done for.  Pick berries, but make sure you know what’s poisonous and what’s not poisonous.  Learn how to make basic snares in training and hunt small animals.  You can’t fight back against the other tributes if you’re starving and emaciated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But most importantly, make sure the Capitol citizens like you.  Generous gifts from sponsors can easily mean the difference between life and death.  I think Cas and I got a good head start in that front at the parade.  Plenty of people seemed to like us, anyway, but there are still a number of days left for us to change that, either for better or worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby leaves it at that for tonight.  I make sure to tell him we appreciate it and we’ll take his valuable advice to heart, and I really do mean it.  I was skeptical of his ability to help us when we first met him, but he’s coming around, slowly but surely.  Perhaps, with more of his guidance and our training days approaching, our chances of winning will continue to grow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although, my hopes instantly deflate again when I remember seeing those tributes watching us as we made our way to the elevator.  They looked so hostile and antagonistic, and that was just after the parade, one of the more exciting parts of preparation.  Tomorrow morning, we’ll be chucked into training all together, the place where we’ll learn survival skills and how to fight with real weapons.  That place will be those aggressive tributes’ department, where they’ll really be able to shine and show off their skills.  Their ability to kill.  The mere thought of it makes my stomach start to churn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are three days of it.  Maybe Cas and I will take the first day to focus on basic survival skills, like making snares and learning what plants are safe to eat, while the more belligerent tributes can get their desire for fighting out of their system.  If they ever do, that is.  Still, I think that’s a decent plan.  Survival skills are more important, anyway.  Knowing how to throw a spear properly won’t help you if you don’t know what’s safe to eat in the environment you’re in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Rowena urges us to go to bed shortly after we finish eating, I don’t object.  Today has been exhausting, and to my surprise, I’m actually eager to go to sleep and start fresh, despite my growing worries about seeing all those tributes who want to kill us face-to-face.  Training is safe, though.  There will be guards and trainers scattered around.  It’s just a place for us to strengthen our skills and prepare for what’s to come without the fear of someone stabbing us in the back.  Completely safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as I will myself to fall asleep, the silence of my dark room ringing in my ears, I can’t stop obsessing over the threatening expressions of those people who will be out for my blood in just a matter of days.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Remember, Cas, we’re just gonna focus on the basic stuff today.  We don’t have to worry about the scarier stations until tomorrow.  Bobby said most of the tributes go for those right away, anyway, so we should have some space to breathe and figure out what we’re doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator ride from our ninth floor apartment to the underground gymnasium that harbors all of the training equipment is relatively short, but it feels like it takes ages.  Tension hangs in the heavy air, so thick you could cut it with a knife.  The second those doors open, we’ll be on level ground and at close quarters with the twenty-two other tributes set to compete in the Hunger Games with us.  The twenty-two people who want nothing more than to see us dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas looks like he’s having a difficult time keeping his breakfast in his stomach.  Rowena woke us up early to make sure we ate enough and got dressed in our training clothes in time to make it to the gymnasium before ten.  It was an arduous task to eat with such a little appetite and queasy belly, but we forced just enough down to give us energy to last through to lunch.  We’re definitely going to need it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A faint chime rings through the elevator.  A small screen above the floor buttons displays the number two.  We’re getting closer and closer to the underground gymnasium, and with every level we descend, my senses only heighten tenfold.  This is the moment.  This is where we train for the televised fight to the death.  We’ve reached the absolute point of no return, and I’m terrified to my very core to see what awaits us down here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The color is still draining from Cas’ face.  He’s managed to keep a stoic expression for most of the morning, but I see it in his eyes, his tightened jaw, his twitching fingers.  He’s just as afraid as I am, as anyone in their right mind would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the elevator passes the first level, I reach over and gently grab his arm, just above his elbow.  His muscles are taut under my grip.  “Just stick with me, okay?”  I tell him.  He flashes me a nervous glance, but only for a fleeting moment.  He nods his head and fixes his apprehensive stare back on the closed doors.  “Don’t be scared.  I’ll be with you the whole time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure if my words are supposed to comfort him or me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The underground gymnasium is a massive area filled with various weapons and survival skills stations, not to mention a few obstacle courses here and there.  The air is cool and ever so slightly damp, and it clings to my already clammy skin as Cas and I hesitantly step out of the elevator and join the group gathered in the middle of the gymnasium.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone else is here, all twenty-two other tributes congregated together in one tight circle, and the simple act of joining them is enough to chill my blood to ice.  Some of them cast us expressionless looks as we approach, while others merely smirk or narrow their eyes.  Most of those come from the Careers, the wealthy, strong, extremely deadly tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4.  One of them, a sturdy boy much taller than me, is already sizing us up with his condescending stare.  I try my best to ignore him, but I can’t ignore the awful feeling of his piercing eyes on the side of my face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I saw it yesterday before the parade, how much taller and stronger and bulkier they all were, but now that we’re all in the same training clothes with no makeup and no chariots to separate us, the nausea is starting to take over again.  Sure, a decent handful of the tributes are just like us in terms of size and strength—they’re probably from the poorer districts like us, too—but my mind isn’t focused on them.  We’re on even playing fields, and I feel okay about that.  What I’m worried about are the six Career tributes who will certainly not hesitate to strike us down in a heartbeat.  They have the ability to do so, and I know they’re not going to let anything stand in their way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to redirect my thoughts for the time being.  Frantic stressing won’t help me learn new skills.  Right now, the head trainer is explaining all the stations, their purposes, and what we’re going to be doing over the course of the next three days, and I need to listen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re free to roam among the different stations as we please.  The experts for each station will remain there and teach us the skills assigned in that specific area of the gymnasium.  They range from basic survival skills to advanced fighting techniques.  No tribute combat is allowed, but there will be experts designated for partner combat if someone wishes to practice fighting.  I definitely don’t want to do that.  Not today, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, long before I’m mentally prepared, we’re set loose to begin our training.  The Careers instantly swarm the weapon stations.  The swords, spears, axes, you name it.  They’re making it their goal to show off and intimidate everyone else in the gymnasium, and I’ll admit it’s working on me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t realize how tense and absorbed in my thoughts I was until Cas taps my arm, and I almost launch out of my shoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where should we start?”  he asks, his soft voice nearly drowned out by the various sounds of sword clashing and spear throwing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look around the gymnasium.  Most of the Careers are engrossed in their weapons training.  A few of the tributes from the outlying districts have gathered at the fire-starting and shelter-making stations.  A few more are trying their hand at one of the obstacle courses in the corner of the expansive room.  Almost all of the stations have at least one tribute, except for a couple near the knife-throwing station, which is also surprisingly empty.  I think those smaller stations are for teaching us about edible plants and insects.  Why not start there?  Something like that is crucial to survival, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The trainers seem contented to have students and happily begin to show us lists and photos of edible plants and insects for varying regions.  We must spend an hour at those stations, going over the lists again and again, trying to commit them to memory.  Cas is much better at memorizing them than I am, and when it comes time for the trainers to give us a quiz on what we remember, he excels, whereas I pass with a decent score but could still use some work.  Looks like we know who will be doing the gathering in the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Careers have switched up their stations, but they’re still flocking the weapons and shooting menacing glares at anyone who dares to join them.  One of these times, they’ll have to give the rest of us a chance at those stations, right?  They can’t hog them forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas and I wander over to the fire-starting station next, seeing as the few who were here earlier have now moved on.  I know Bobby warned us about making fires, but it wouldn’t hurt to at least know how to start one from scratch.  It might come in handy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes the two of us a long while to figure out how to make a simple spark, even with the trainer’s assistance.  Cas is determined, though, and after a taxing round of trial and error, he finally manages to create a spark and a faint fire with both flint and charred cloth.  The firelight shines in his eyes as he grins at his accomplishment.  So he’s incredibly smart </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>talented at picking up new skills.  I return his grin with matching excitement and make sure to give him a high five.  He deserves it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We have time to visit one more station before lunch, so we make our way over to the knot-tying station to learn some basic snares and other traps that could be useful.  This one is a lot more difficult than I anticipated.  You have to have nimble fingers to tie some of these intricate knots, which I do not.  I can manage the bigger knots for certain traps, but creating detailed snares is not my forte.  Cas isn’t the best at it, either, but since he’s slightly smaller than I am, he’s able to get a bit further with the snares.  I’m sure it just takes plenty of practice.  We’ll have to visit this station again, because I do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to eat plants and bugs the entire time we’re in the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lunch is being served in a dining room adjacent to the gymnasium.  There are carts and carts full of steaming food, and it appears we serve ourselves.  The Careers gather together around one of the tables, talking loudly and clearly flaunting their confidence and sense of superiority.  The other tributes all claim separate tables, and much to my relief, there seems to be a table for every district.  Good.  I’m not quite in the mood to chat with people who will be trying to kill us soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between the rowdy Careers and the dread of being confined in a room with the other tributes, it’s a struggle to find topics to discuss.  Cas keeps his head down while he eats.  On the other hand, I can’t stop myself from glancing around the dining room, fearful that one of these times I’m going to lock eyes with someone I don’t want to, and eventually, I spot one of the boys from District 1 watching us from his table.  His expression is unreadable, but I know he’s observing us, trying to study us like lab rats.  The glint in his dark eyes makes my breath hitch in my throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Cas, you were really good at the plant and insect station,”  I say abruptly, forcing myself to turn back around.  I can still feel that stare piercing into my skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas takes note of my uneasiness instantly and glances over at the boy from District 1.  Nothing must have changed behind me because his gaze plummets back to his plate of food, and he shrugs.  “I don’t know why, but I’ve always been good with memorization.  Must’ve started in school sometime.”  His voice quivers ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you definitely outshined me,”  I say with a chuckle, trying to soften some of the tension, and thankfully, he returns it.  “Same thing with the fire-starting.  Maybe you’re a natural-born survivalist and just don’t know it yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile brightens as he thanks me.  Then, he peels his gaze away from the table and dares to peek at the District 1 boy again.  His perturbed expression is anything but reassuring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he still staring at us?”  I mutter under my breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods, imperceptible to anyone else, but I see it clear as day.  “Like we’re his next meal,”  he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart sinks, but I will myself to ignore the unnerving feeling.  We’re still in training.  We’re still safe.  The boy from District 1 can’t do anything to hurt us yet, and although I’m afraid he might be planning to, there’s nothing we can do about it now other than try our best to brush it off and focus on our own training.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Easier said than done, huh?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let him bother you,”  I tell Cas and yet again struggle to decide if my words are meant to comfort him or me.  “He’s just trying to show off.  He won’t be making that face when he’s starving and doesn’t know which plants are edible and which ones aren’t like you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A feeble smile glimmers in Cas’ eyes, but it’s easy to tell that both of us are shaken up by the Career’s intimidating stare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After lunch, Cas and I try out the knot-tying station again and find ourselves already improving at the more intricate snares.  Then we visit the plants and insects station, just to refresh our memories.  Cas recalls everything, and surprisingly, I almost do, too.  We decide to save another fire-starting attempt for tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first new station we venture over to is the camouflage station.  There, the trainer teaches us how to use mud, sticks, plants, and other various things we can find in the wilderness to paint ourselves and blend in with our surroundings.  It’s a fascinating station, and despite our lack of artistic talent, we still manage to design a rather believable tree bark camouflage on our arms.  When we stand next to the fake tree at the station, though, we stick out like a sore thumb, but if it was dark or someone was just blind, I think it would work perfectly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re running out of non-combat and non-weapon stations to visit.  I want to try out the shelter-making station, but the tributes from District 10 are already there, and they look like they’re busy.  I don’t want to interrupt them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the gymnasium, I spot the slingshot station.  That might work for us.  Slingshots aren’t as dangerous or violent as swords or spears, and knowing how to use something like that might prove to be beneficial, anyway.  If we find high ground like Bobby encouraged, a slingshot could be the perfect weapon to have.  Shooting from above and disorienting—maybe even harming—anyone who comes our way suddenly sounds like a fantastic idea to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quite close to the other weapon stations, though, where the Careers are still showing off their deadly skills.  They’re fairly absorbed in what they’re doing, so maybe they won’t notice us if we wander over there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay here for a second, Cas,”  I say, flashing him a reassuring glance when his eyes widen with fear.  “I’m just gonna look at the slingshot station and see if it’s something we wanna do.  I’ll be right back.  Don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I draw a trembling breath as I cautiously make my way to the hazardous side of the gymnasium.  The sounds of spears and knives hitting targets echoes in my ringing ears.  I don’t dare look at any of those Careers, and much to my relief, they don’t seem to notice me at all as I peer at the empty slingshot station.  It looks manageable enough.  Just pull back on the rubber band and shoot the ball at the targets.  Easy.  We can do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just picking up one of the slingshots to weigh it in my hands when I hear an amused voice resonating through the cold air, but the words it speaks makes my stomach drop to my feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s your boyfriend, Nine?  He finally leave your side for two seconds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I whirl around so fast I almost lose my balance.  Anger replaces the fear coursing through my veins when I see the boy from District 1, the one who was staring at us at lunch, advancing toward Cas, who’s trying his hardest to back away without seeming too afraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not my—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that, Nine?  You gotta speak up.  I can’t hear you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even bother to put the slingshot back in its proper holder.  My blood boils.  I storm over to the Career without a moment of hesitation.  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”  I snap, stepping in front of him and gently pushing Cas aside.  Now that I’m standing directly in front of this boy, I see I only come up to his chin, but I’m too furious to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, speak of the devil, and he shall appear!”  the boy chuckles, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.  Which it isn’t.  “I was just asking your boyfriend where you wandered off to.  Just a harmless question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m thrown off guard by “</span>
  <em>
    <span>boyfriend</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” but only for a split second.  “Listen, buddy, I’m not in the mood for confrontation right now,”  I warn, not daring to look away from his intimidating stare, “so how about you walk away and we forget any of this ever happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve never wanted to take back my words faster than when the boy steps closer to me, narrowing his cold eyes and standing up even straighter than before.  He seems to grow a whole foot as he peers down at me like a hungry giant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or what?”  he sneers, voice low and threatening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s too late to back out now.  I look him dead in the eyes and stand my ground, despite all the alarms blaring in my head, screaming at me to run.  “Or you’re not gonna like what happens next.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what I’m doing.  I’ve never been in a fight in my life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas grabs my arm, trying to pull me away from the hostile scenario I’ve gotten myself into.  The rational side of me begs me to go with him before I get my nose broken, but the other side of me doesn’t want to budge.  This Career was harassing him, and he made a horrible mistake by doing so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy scoffs then, antagonistic amusement shining in his gaze.  That only irritates me more.  “You’re bold, Nine, for someone who hasn’t touched a weapon all day,”  he remarks.  “You must really care about your little boy toy here—”  He suddenly clutches Cas’ shoulder and pushes him around, completely ignoring his cries of distress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That does it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Back off!”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>I yell, shoving the Career away with strength I didn’t know I had.  My harsh voice doesn’t sound like it came out of me at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fury flashes in the boy’s eyes.  He shoves me back, but twice as hard.  I stumble but manage to stay on my feet.  He </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>crossed a line this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chorus of voices, some concerned and some thrilled, echoes in my ears as the boy and I lunge at each other again, pushing and shoving and scratching with rage.  He’s spitting profanities at me.  I’m still shouting at him to back off.  Guards and trainers rush to the scene of the fight in an instant, desperately trying to break us apart, while the Careers cheer from the sidelines and the other tributes silently watch in shock and horror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re dead!”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>the boy shrieks as the guards struggle to restrain him, but not before he gets one last shove on me.  He pushes me so forcefully that it sends me tumbling to the ground and knocks all the breath out of my burning lungs.  I’m faintly aware of Cas crying out my name.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re dead, Nine!  Both of you!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>My head pounds with every rapid beat of my heart as I watch the boy get dragged away by the guards.  He doesn’t even look human anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m watching you!  You’ll be the first ones I get!  Just you wait!  Just you wait!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His sinister threat drills into my skull and settles in the pit of my churning stomach long before the guards take him out of the gymnasium.  Normal training resumes within seconds, as if nothing ever happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how long Cas has been standing there with his hand outstretched, offering to help me to my feet, but I take it without hesitation.  The blinding anger that possessed me out of nowhere is slowly melting into paralyzing fear once more as the Career’s menacing words play on a loop in my head.  It sounded like a promise to me, and a promise like that is bound to be kept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ hand lingers over my own for a moment longer than necessary, but I barely notice.  My vision is spinning.  Everything aches.  Not even the concern in his bright blue eyes as he asks me if I’m okay can calm my rattled nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We have a lethal Career thirsting for our deaths, and it terrifies me to realize it might be my fault.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I never thought I’d be so relieved to step foot in our ninth floor apartment.  Finishing up the few remaining hours of training after my fight with the boy from District 1 was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.  All the other Careers kept flashing me knowing smirks or intimidating smiles.  The quieter tributes avoided me as best as they could.  Apparently I’ve already earned a reputation with everyone, and it’s not one I’d been hoping to achieve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas and I get ourselves cleaned up before we eat with the rest of our team, and I’ll admit I’m dreading this evening’s conversation.  Who knows if they heard what went on today?  They might know nothing at all, but guilt and fear have been gnawing on my insides for hours on end.  I wish I could go back in time and prevent any of that from ever happening, but I can’t, and now I have to live with the consequences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least the food is amazing tonight.  Roasted duck, ham, corn, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a very tempting apple pie for dessert.  Maybe I can drown my sorrows in food.  Maybe that will make me feel better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley and Meg join us at the table again.  For a while, no one speaks.  The sounds of cutlery clinking against our plates is the only thing keeping the silence from becoming unbearable.  Perhaps I’ll be able to leave when I’m done without having to explain what happened earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I spoke too soon.  Rowena smiles, draws a breath, and asks, “So how was your first day of training?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas spares me a nervous glance.  We might be able to skirt around the subject of the fight if we’re careful.  I wouldn’t put it past Rowena to skin me alive if she finds out what I did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was good,”  I reply, hoping nobody notices the slight tremor in my voice.  “We learned how to start a fire and make some basic snare traps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything else?”  Bobby inquires, his unreadable stare fixated on me and me alone.  His tone is dangerously steady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows.  He must know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to brush it off and play it cool.  He hasn’t said anything about it yet.  “Cas passed the edible plants and insects quiz with flying colors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena seems pleased with our accomplishments.  She gives us a dainty clap and tells us to keep up the great work, all the while our two stylists simply nod in agreement.  Bobby is the only one who’s acting skeptical, and I’m afraid he’s going to blurt it out any second now.  I don’t like the glint in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relief floods through me, though, when our mentor finally nods his head and returns his attention to his plate of food.  Maybe he doesn’t know.  Maybe I panicked over nothing, and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard you got into a fight today, Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, I definitely panicked over something.  Fantastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the appalled expression on Rowena’s face, you’d think I murdered her dog and left it to rot in her backyard.  Bobby is back to staring at me with that frustratingly indecipherable face.  Cas has stiffened, shrinking down into his shoulders as suffocating silence falls over the table.  Part of me almost thinks Crowley and Meg look impressed but are keeping their expressions neutral to avoid a scolding.  I see my new reputation has not been limited to the training gymnasium, but has indeed followed me up to the safety of our apartment.  Wonderful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone is silent, staring, waiting for an answer or explanation from me.  I can’t help but feel like I’m on trial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The other boy started it,”  I mutter.  I hope no one can hear my heart beating out of my chest.  “He was pushing Cas around, and it just made me mad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I see Cas looking at me out of the corner of his eye.  We still haven’t discussed what happened at length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Young man, I cannot believe you got into a fight on your first day of training!”  Rowena rebukes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And with a boy from District One,”  Bobby adds with a raised eyebrow.  Great, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>he know about the whole ordeal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was from District One?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guys,”  I intervene, desperate to stop this train from derailing any further.  “It’s not a big deal.  The guards separated us before anything really happened.  It’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena opens her mouth to object, but Bobby raises his hand to tell her to drop it.  I’m surprised.  I thought for sure he’d be scolding me, too, especially considering the reproachful tone in his voice, but maybe not.  Maybe he doesn’t mind as much as his attitude is portraying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So did you find anything else you’re good at other than making dangerous enemies?”  he asks after a beat, his stare seeming to pierce right through me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m losing the energy to speak as the paralyzing guilt begins to consume me yet again, and Cas seems to notice.  He takes a deep breath and answers the question for me.  “Not really.  Nothing too special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’d better get cracking,”  Bobby says.  “In a couple of days, you’ll have your private sessions with the Gamemakers.  That’s where they’ll give you a score based on the skill you present to them.  I’m sure you probably know by now, but better scores mean more sponsors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of us nod without a word.  We know how the private sessions and scoring system work after years of being subjected to watch the Hunger Games on TV.  That doesn’t make it any easier to figure out what we’re going to do about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I don’t mean to scare you boys, either,”  Bobby goes on, “but the less sponsors you have, the less likely you are to survive, especially now that the Careers have your scent.  They’re deadly kids.  They won’t hesitate to kill on sight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My blood runs ice cold.  Next to me, the color drains from Cas’ face.  He’s trying his hardest to hide it, but his lip is starting to quiver.  I know what that means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bobby, don’t say things like that!”  Rowena hisses before I have a chance to speak.  “You’re supposed to mentor them, not scare them half to death!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just stating the facts,”  Bobby says.  “Would you rather have me sugarcoat it?  This isn’t a magical realm where there’s always a happy ending.  This is about life and death.  I’m just telling it like it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All conversation skids to an abrupt halt when the sound of a chair scraping across the floor echoes in the air, and Cas rises to his feet.  His expression is vacant, but in the light of the chandelier, I see that his eyes are brimming with tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not very hungry,”  is all he murmurs before he disappears down the hallway and into his room.  The closing of his door makes my heart ache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If looks could kill, Bobby would be dead four times over.  I glare at him.  Rowena glares at him.  Even Crowley and Meg glare at him, because it’s obvious Cas didn’t just get full out of nowhere.  He barely touched his food.  The anger I felt earlier is beginning to trickle back into my veins, and it’s making my hands shake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to sugarcoat everything, Bobby,”  I snap as I stand, “but it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more sympathetic from time to time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one objects as I leave the table and venture down the hall toward Cas’ closed door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t hear anything coming from the inside of his room.  I want to go in and check on him, to make sure he’s okay, but would that be stepping over a boundary?  He might want to be alone.  It’s his room, and he shut the door.  He looked distraught before he left, though, and I don’t want him to be alone if he’s dealing with something like that.  It doesn’t hurt to try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas?”  I raise my fist to knock on the door, softly.  “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No answer.  I knock again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I come in?  I just want to make sure you’re all right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I barely hear his faint voice saying something.  It’s muffled by the door.  It doesn’t sound angry, so I assume it’s okay for me to come in.  I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dark and cold in his room.  The only lights are coming from the wall of glass as the nighttime city gleams and glows through the window.  Cas is sitting on a small velvet sofa that overlooks the skyline, his sorrowful face illuminated by the gold and blue and pink hues of the vibrant city.  His arms are tightly wrapped around his abdomen, and he doesn’t even seem to notice me as I step inside and close the door behind me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my fault,”  he mumbles, so quiet it’s almost inaudible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”  I ask with a frown.  My footsteps seem like thunderclaps in the silence of the room as I move to sit beside him.  “What’s your fault?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fight,”  he says.  He doesn’t take his blank gaze away from the cityscape outside.  “It’s my fault.  If I would’ve stuck up for myself, you wouldn’t have had to intervene.  Now that boy wants to kill us, and he’s going to.  It’s my fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words sting like lemon juice in an open wound.  Does he really believe that all of this is his fault?  That because he was rightfully afraid to stand up to a strong and aggressive Career tribute, it’s his fault we’re targets now?  Far from it.  None of this is his fault, and it pains me to hear that he thinks so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault, Cas,”  I tell him, and I genuinely mean it, too.  “I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault except his.  That boy seemed to have it out for us long before what happened in the gymnasium.  Remember lunch?  He was the one looking to start a fight, not us.  Don’t blame yourself.  You did nothing wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tears in Cas’ eyes almost appear violet from the city lights as he turns to look at me.  He only holds my gaze for a fleeting moment, for the very second one of the tears spills down his cheek, he turns away and fixes his attention on the floor beneath us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you stepped in because you were mad,”  he says in between unsteady breaths.  “Why?  You could’ve gotten hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what, I was just supposed to stand by and let him hurt you instead?  He was harassing you for no reason, and it made me angry.  I had to step in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A faint smile tugs at his quivering lips, but it fades almost as soon as it appears.  “Thank you,”  he murmurs; he cuts me off before I have a chance to say anything else.  “But I don’t want to be the weakling anymore.  Everyone knows I’m the weak one, the one who cries at the drop of a hat and can’t sleep at night because he’s so scared of everything that’s happening.  I don’t want to be that person anymore, but I can’t stop.  I don’t know how.  I don’t know anything other than how terrified I am.  That District One boy saw it.  That’s why he’s going after us, and everyone else will, too.  I just know it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is starting to break, and it’s squeezing all the air out of my lungs, clutching my aching heart with icy fingers.  “You’re not weak, Cas.  We’re being pitted against twenty-two other kids in a televised fight.  It’s normal to be scared.  I am, too.  You’re not weak for admitting that, and you’re not weak for crying, either.  None of this is morally right in the slightest, and honestly, I’d say you’re handling it pretty well considering what happened to you in the past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, he glances back up, violet tears glistening in the light.  This time, he doesn’t turn away when another trickles down his cheek.  “I still can’t believe this is happening,”  he whispers, shaking his head and tightening his arms around his abdomen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”  I have to let go of a shaky sigh before it builds up in my chest any more.  “But you’re brave for sticking with it.  I hope you know that.  You haven’t given up, and I’m not gonna leave you hanging, either.  We’re in this together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wish I could tell him how proud I am of him for everything he’s done here in the Capitol, especially after the horrible and tragic incident with his older brother, but I can’t quite find the words to articulate it.  I wish I could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m surprised when Cas suddenly lets out a feeble chuckle.  “That’s part of the problem,”  he says, and when I give him a puzzled frown, he elaborates.  “Listen, Dean, I really appreciate you wanting to protect and look out for me.  Trust me, I really do, but if I could stand up for myself, you wouldn’t have to.  If I could stand up for myself, maybe the Careers wouldn’t look at us like meals.  Maybe we wouldn’t be viewed as such easy targets.  Maybe we would have a better chance in this thing if I wasn’t such a baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words are like a punch to the gut.  “Cas—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t stop.  “Both of us know you’re the one who’s more likely to make it out of here, and your chances would be even better if you didn’t have to worry about me.  I don’t know why, but I’m your weak spot, Dean, and it’s causing more trouble than it’s worth.  I’m putting you in danger because you’re trying to look out for me, someone who doesn’t even have a snowball’s chance at making it through the first day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not true.”  I’m starting to lose control of my own voice.  Everything he says only shatters my spirits more and more.  “None of that is true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t seem to hear me, or even notice me, for that matter.  He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing a stream of tears to slide down his flushed face, and struggles to take in a breath.  “I wish there wasn’t a force field on the roof.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart stops working.  Time seems to slow to a painful standstill.  I don’t want to believe what I’m hearing.  I can’t.  It’s too much.  Is he really hurting that badly?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas, don’t say things like that.”  Now I’m the one who’s barely audible.  Each word gets caught in my tight throat.  It stings, and it makes tears burn in my own eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why didn’t he tell me before?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I reach for his hand, but he stands before I have the chance.  “I’m sorry,”  he whimpers, silently shuffling toward the spotless window.  “I didn’t mean it.  I’m just so scared, and I don’t know what to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his back to me, he’s nothing but a silhouette, outlined by the vivid colors of the city.  I can see his shoulders wavering with suppressed sobs.  I want to do something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to ease his misery, but what could I possibly say in a moment like this?  He has every right to feel the way he does.  Twenty-two other tributes are plotting our demise as we speak.  His brother was murdered in the exact same competition we’re training to participate in.  It’s morbid, absolutely macabre, but knowing the true depths of his suffering hurts more than I could ever imagine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what to say.  Nothing comes to mind.  So instead of speaking, I join him at the window.  Without a word, I clasp his shoulder, turn him around, and gently pull him into my arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s tense at first, sucking in a sharp breath of surprise, but when I tighten my arms around his shuddering body, he starts to relax.  He melts all of his weight into my chest.  He releases a trembling sigh and burrows deeper into my shoulder.  His fingers curl around the fabric of my shirt with a grip so secure I think he might never let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s warm.  I can feel the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat.  His soft hair is tickling my neck.  And he still smells like vanilla.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to let go, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how long we stand there, locked in that reposeful embrace while the city gleams behind us, but it doesn’t matter.  The tension dissipates from my stiff joints, loosens the pressure in my chest, as Cas holds onto me like his life depends on it, and I hold onto him, wishing and praying for all of our problems and turmoils to go away.  I know the world doesn’t work like that, though, so I’ll settle for this.  I’d say it’s second-best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, his breathing steadies and returns to a normal pattern.  His tremoring ceases.  His strong grip on my shirt relaxes, but not his grip on me.  He’s still clinging to me like a koala, and I can’t help but smile at the thought of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better?”  I ask him.  I know I am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel him nod against my shoulder.  “Much,”  he says softly.  The vibrations from his voice make my skin prickle with goosebumps.  “I swear, you’re too nice to me.  I don’t know how you put up with all of my meltdowns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not putting up with anything,”  I say.  “You could have a thousand meltdowns, and I’d still be there every time to make you feel better.  That’s what friends are for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas breathes out a faint laugh.  “Oh, so we’ve reached that stage already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.  Why not?  You’re a good person, Cas.  I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else but you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I mean it, too, no matter how odd it may sound.  We’ve only known each other for a few days, but to me, they’ve seemed like years.  The two of us have already been through so much that it’s impossible to not feel like close friends already.  I trust him.  I admire his bravery for facing this after what happened to his brother.  I admire his kindness, his soft-spoken demeanor.  He might not believe it, but he’s exactly the type of person I want to have by my side through this whole ordeal, and I can only hope I’m being that person for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though I can’t see him, I can feel him smile, can feel his body shiver with a gentle sigh.  “I’m glad you’re here, too,”  he murmurs against my shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A twinge of disappointment shoots through me when Cas finally releases me and takes a step back, but I try to brush it off.  I still feel the ghost of his warm, comforting touch on my back, on my shoulder, and it makes another wave of goosebumps dance along my skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanna try the weapon stations tomorrow,”  he declares so abruptly that it almost knocks me off balance.  I must have a dumbfounded look on my face because he continues within moments.  “I don’t want to be the scared one anymore.  If I learn how some of that stuff works, maybe I won’t be so freaked out.  Maybe the Careers won’t look at us like we’re wounded animals, you know?  Besides, Bobby said we need to figure out what skill we’re presenting in our private sessions.  I don’t think I’ll get a very good score for showing off my memorization skills.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brings up a decent point.  The Gamemakers care about one thing and one thing only, and that’s how deadly you are.  Being quick or smart or crafty means nothing.  If you can’t throw knives perfectly or excel in brutal hand-to-hand combat, you won’t get a good score.  It’s all about putting on an entertaining show with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he also brings up a decent point about learning how the weapons work.  I’ll admit that I was afraid of working in the fields and handling sharp sickles the very first time I started, but once I learned how they functioned, my fears shrank, and I grew more confident with them over time.  If Cas and I check out and work with the different weapons in the gymnasium tomorrow, we might get used to them and conquer the anxieties they bring.  That, in turn, could ease some of his distress about everything, and that alone is enough to convince me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want to,”  I tell him.  “I don’t want you to force yourself if you don’t feel like it, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head.  “No, I want to.  I don’t want to put all the pressure of keeping us safe on you.  I want to help.  I’m still gonna be scared, of course, but you’ll be there with me.  That’ll make it easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s such a simple statement, but it warms my heart and makes me smile like never before.  He trusts me enough that my mere presence calms his nerves.  I don’t know what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I don’t say anything.  A bright smile still lights up my face as I pull him in for another hug, this one much briefer but still pleasantly uplifting.  He laughs at the sudden movement, and I can’t help but laugh, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our plan is set.  We’re going to start off the day with a refresher of the stations we visited today and then slowly work our way up to the weapons.  I’m not sure which ones we’ll visit for sure, but I suppose that’s something we can figure out when we’re in the gymnasium.  I have faith that we’ll find what’s best for us.  We work well together, and I couldn’t be happier about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s getting late, and it’s been an excruciatingly long and exhausting day.  We’re going to need all the rest we can get if we’re going to make it through two more days of intense training, and that doesn’t even include the private sessions.  Just thinking about that is a taxing challenge in itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I make my way to the door to return to my own room for the night, Cas speaks up just as my hand touches the handle.  “Hey, Dean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn around, meeting his wide bright blue eyes.  He’s absentmindedly picking at his fingernails again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, uh…”  He pauses, looking as if he has a hundred things to say but is stumbling over what he wants to spit out.  Finally, he shakes his head, a feeble smile tugging at his lips.  “Never mind.  Just...thanks.  For everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I return his smile in a heartbeat.  “Don’t mention it.  I’m here for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I can’t help but wonder what he wanted to say as I burrow under my blankets and try with all my might to fall asleep before dawn breaks.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’m not sure why, but I’m not nearly as unnerved about stepping foot in the training gymnasium as I was yesterday.  Maybe it’s because Cas and I have a detailed plan for the day.  Maybe it’s because the initial meeting of the other tributes is done and over with.  Maybe it’s because I’ve unintentionally branded myself as a feisty bruiser from my fight with the District 1 boy, and now everyone who isn’t a Career is looking at me with a strange mix of admiration and unbridled fear.  Whatever the reason for my burst of confidence, I’m not complaining.</p><p>Cas hasn’t forgotten a single thing from the edible plants and insects station.  My knowledge is improving, slowly but surely.  The two of us manage to start a fire from scratch in half the time it took us yesterday.  Our snares and knot-tying skills are coming along, too, as well as our subpar camouflage abilities.  We briefly visit the shelter-making station to gather a few tips and tricks, and then we’re ready to tackle the weapon stations.</p><p>Most of the Careers have exhausted the weapons and moved onto some of the intimidating obstacle courses in the corners of the gymnasium, leaving the two of us—along with a handful of tributes from the other outlying districts—plenty of breathing room to get started.  I can tell Cas is nervous, but he assures me he’s ready and still wants to follow through with our plan, so that’s exactly what we do.</p><p>
  <span>We start at the axe station but quickly realize that neither of us is built to wield such a thing.  The axe is far too large and cumbersome for me to swing around effectively, and Cas doesn’t have enough body weight to keep himself balanced during the swings.  We cross axes off our list of potential weapons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We try the spear station next.  It goes swimmingly compared to the axe station, but I don’t feel like I’m in total control with a spear in my hand.  It’s awkwardly long and light, and precision is an absolute must.  I’m fairly strong and have a decent throwing arm, but something about the extensive, streamline body of it and how accurate I have to be with my throws just doesn’t sit well with me.  Cas throws well, too, but when I mention my concerns, he agrees wholeheartedly.  Spears are an option, but they will not be our go-to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The archery station is our next stop.  It takes the two of us a few rounds to get a feel for the tightness of the string, but overall, our performance isn’t half bad.  After the initial first-time misses, we actually start to hit the targets in satisfactory locations, places that could cause some serious damage to someone.  It isn’t an overly pleasant thought, but we’re just shooting at targets.  That’s what I try to focus on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With our spirits lifted from our success at the archery station, we wander over to the sword station, and my hopes only continue to skyrocket.  The sword feels perfectly balanced in my grasp.  It isn’t too light.  It isn’t too heavy or bulky or difficult to wield.  It’s just right, and in a way, it reminds me of the sickles back home, and I’ve worked with those for years.  I have an amazing feeling about this station.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hunch turns out to be correct.  I excel at this station.  After learning the basics of postures and wielding techniques from the trainer, I practice on the dummies with gratifying ease.  It’s almost like I’ve been practicing for months, maybe even years.  Cas doesn’t do half bad at this station, either, but after a while, he simply stops to watch me, eyes wide and brows raised with surprise and wonder.  That’s how I feel on the inside, because I’m even surprising myself.  I’m no expert, of course, but I show decent prowess with this weapon, and I’m more excited about that fact than I ever thought I’d be.  I just might have to try sparring with a trainer now to really test it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, we reach the knife-throwing station.  Part of me, deep down, has been dreading this station all day, and one look at the expression on Cas’ face tells me he is, too.  His brother was killed by a girl who probably practiced her deadly skills at this exact same station six years ago.  I want to tell Cas we can skip this, that we can find something else for him to work on, but he doesn’t let me.  He takes a deep, unsteady breath, and he approaches the empty knife-throwing station head-on.  Once again, I admire his courage and tenacity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within moments, I can already confirm that I prefer throwing knives over spears.  They’re much smaller and easier to finesse, and picking up the techniques isn’t all that difficult, either.  During our time at the station, though, I find my focus is not entirely on the intended weapon.  It’s on Cas, watching him carefully, making sure he’s okay, and from what I can tell, he looks like he is.  He masters the basics in minutes, and before I know it, he’s executing near-perfect throws at the targets.  His striking accuracy baffles me so much that one of my own knives goes flying ten feet above the target.  Thankfully, the trainer doesn’t seem to mind that I may have just stabbed a hole in the back wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the trainer retrieves our knives to allow us another round of practice, Cas gives me a glum smile.  “Kind of ironic that this is the thing I’m best at, huh?”  he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At lunch, we discuss all the stations we visited and narrow down what weapons we feel most comfortable with.  My top pick is the sword with the bow and arrow being an optional second choice.  Cas’ top pick are the throwing knives, which is, of course, so painfully ironic that it’s almost sadistic, but at least he found something he excels at.  We decide to alternate between touching up on survival skills and practicing with the swords and knives for the remainder of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an hour left of training, after we strengthened our plethora of developing skills, I finally muster up the courage to attempt sword combat with a trainer who’s beyond eager to have a new student.  We won’t be using real swords, just hard foam substitutes, but the idea is still there, the idea of fighting with dangerous weapons that could easily kill at a moment’s notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas silently observes from the sidelines as the trainer tells me everything there is to know about battling with swords and knives.  The proper postures, techniques, swings, slashes, everything.  My blood roars in my ears, and I can feel my hands beginning to tremble, but I don’t back down.  Knowing how to wield a sword won’t do me any good if I don’t know how to fight back against someone who’s an experienced killer.  I have to do this.  I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do this.  It’s the only way to secure our safety, even if it’s just by a small margin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I spend the full hour with the trainer, losing many rounds of battle but also winning a decent handful.  It takes time, but I slowly pick up on the more advanced techniques, like how to swiftly dodge an attack, how to block, how to slash when the enemy is distracted, all the things that could save my life in the arena.  By the time we’re dismissed for the day, I’m drenched in sweat and shaking with adrenaline, but I’m more confident than I was when we walked in this morning.  I know how to wield and fight with an actual weapon, and I couldn’t be more relieved and ecstatic about something like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner with our team is so much more relaxed now that I haven’t gotten into a fight and Cas and I have shown an aptitude for certain weapons.  Bobby is, shockingly, pleased with our accomplishments and encourages us to continue working with the swords and knives tomorrow for our final day of training, just to make sure we’re prepared.  Rowena gushes about how she spent the entire day parading around the Capitol trying to win us sponsors.  She says she told people the story of how I valiantly volunteered for my little brother, how Cas is braving the Games after the tragedy with his older brother years prior, even how handsome the two of us are.  I’m still not quite sure what attractiveness has to do with sponsors, but if Rowena sees something I don’t, then I’m all for it.  She knows what she’s doing, and I make sure to tell her we appreciate her efforts.  And I really mean it, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our third and last day of training brings a flood of overwhelming pressure.  This is our final opportunity to practice and hone the skills that could mean the difference between life and death in the arena.  During lunch, we have our private sessions with the Gamemakers.  Tomorrow, we have a day to prepare for the televised interviews with our team.  The next day brings the interview itself, and after that, it will be time for the moment everyone in the Capitol everyone has been eagerly anticipating, and the moment everyone in the districts has surely been losing sleep over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In less than three days, the twenty-four tributes will be thrust into the arena, and the Hundredth Hunger Games will fully commence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t lie and say I’m not starting to feel swallowed up by nerves and anxieties, but I try my best to push them aside.  We still have a few hours to train before our private sessions, and I need to take advantage of every last second if I’m going to feel prepared enough to even set foot in that arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas and I quickly visit all of our survival skills stations, then move onto our sword and knife training.  His throwing and accuracy is improving by the minute.  My sword combat expertise is improving drastically, as well.  I win most of the fights with the trainer.  We even touch up on our archery and spear skills, just to be on the safe side.  You never know what’s going to happen out there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before lunch, I decide to try my luck at hand-to-hand combat.  It’s almost like my sword combat training, just without the hard foam substitutes.  Blocking and dodging techniques are similar.  Even the methods of striking and slashing are alike, and even though I’m not the best at it, I wanted to give it a shot.  We might not have the luxury of obtaining a weapon when the Games start, and I want to be prepared for absolutely anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I ask Cas if he wants to try the sword or hand-to-hand combat stations, but he says he picked up enough from just watching me.  I believe him, but I can’t help but worry about him getting caught up in a fight and not being able to defend himself.  He’s good with knives, but what if someone catches him off guard?  What then?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mere thought is making me ill, so I try not to fret over it too much.  There are more pressing matters at hand now, and that’s making it through our private sessions with the Gamemakers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We all sit in the dining room off the gymnasium, attempting to eat our lunches but ultimately failing due to the stress of the approaching sessions.  They’ll call each of us in one by one in order of our districts, meaning the boys from District 1 will go first and the boys from District 12 will go last.  Cas and I have some time to eat and ready ourselves since we’re from District 9, but I don’t think any amount of time would be enough for me to walk out of here and into my session with any sense of self-assurance.  Sure, I’m good at sword combat, but I have a sinking feeling my nerves might get the better of me.</span>
</p><p><span>The first person to get called is the boy I got into a fight with, the tall, strong, overly cocky and confident boy from District 1, who I learn is named</span> <span>Cresh.  As he rises, his cold stare instantly fixes on Cas and me.  I stare right back at him until he leaves the dining room and disappears into the gymnasium.</span></p><p>
  <span>I caught him watching us from time to time during the last couple of training days, mostly when we were trying out the various weapon stations.  I always noticed—it made shivers run down my spine—and I think Cas did, too, but we never spoke of it.  He’d already done the damage.  There was no point in getting involved with him again, no matter how unnerving his scrutinizing stares were.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t like him one bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fifteen minutes pass, and the other boy from District 1 is called.  Another fifteen minutes, and District 2’s sessions begin.  Slowly, the crowd in the dining room starts to lessen as the Gamemakers go through the list of tributes.  The first boy from District 5 is just getting called when Cas gently pokes my arm, snapping me out of my apprehensive daydreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna fight with a trainer for your session?”  he asks, his voice low, as if he’s worried about the others eavesdropping on us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod.  “I think so.  Are you gonna throw your knives and scare the living daylights out of them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, he cracks a smile.  It’s a faint one, but I see the amusement shimmering in his eyes.  “You know it,”  he agrees.  “I might show them how well I remember the edible plants and insects if I have spare time, too.  It wouldn’t hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It definitely wouldn’t.  The more skills you show the Gamemakers, the better.  All they’re looking for is an entertaining performance that will make for an even more entertaining Games.  They don’t care about us, the humans behind the skills.  They just care about how efficiently we can murder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the boys from District 6 begin to filter out of the dining room for their private sessions, the uneasy tension in the air is almost unbearable.  It’s getting harder and harder to suppress my disquiet.  My frenzied mind starts to wander.  These dreadful Gamemakers have been watching us for the past three days, drinking wine and stuffing themselves with endless amounts of food while we toiled over developing skills that will keep us alive, and now they have the opportunity to judge us individually.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Score </span>
  </em>
  <span>us based on our prowess.  I know it’s all part of the sick and twisted process, but just thinking about stepping foot into that gymnasium where only the Gamemakers’ attentive eyes and I will be present is making my skin crawl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My leg starts to bounce.  I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to sit here, silently suffering and waiting for my name to get called.  Time has slowed to an agonizing pace.  This is pure torture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I almost jump when Cas moves, but his movement is one that soothes my rattled nerves in a heartbeat.  He rests his hand on top of mine, a simple but calming gesture we’ve grown used to doing when one—or both—of us is anxious.  I’m usually the one to do it, but he must be able to tell how bothered I am by this whole scenario.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What would I do if he wasn’t here with me?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how we remain for the remainder of the sessions prior to our own, quietly sitting across from one another, hands gently touching as an act of reassurance, and I’m relieved to admit it works.  By the time the overhead voice booms through the dining room, calling out, “District Nine: Dean Winchester,” I’m ready to go.  Still terrified, of course, but prepared to face it without melting into a puddle of stress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas wishes me luck as I rise from the table, onto my unsteady feet, and turn toward the entrance to the gymnasium.  It’s now or never, I suppose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The expansive training room is uncomfortably silent and devoid of life, and the crushing isolation I feel as I glance up at the elevated platform where the group of Gamemakers sit and observe is oppressive.  Some of them already seem intoxicated, laughing too loudly and shouting at their friends from across the platform, despite how noiseless the room is otherwise.  Most of them, though, eat from their banquet table without a word, watching as I approach with caution and wary hesitation.  My footsteps echo through the massive room and make my hair stand on end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time I reach the center of the desolate gymnasium, a man clad in a deep purple suit, who I can only imagine is the Head Gamemaker, hushes the others and turns to gaze down at me.  “You have fifteen minutes to present your chosen skill, Mr. Winchester,”  he announces, his voice low and resonant.  “Good luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m definitely going to need it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fight to keep my trembling hands under control as I cross over to the station that holds the swords.  The steel slides against another sword as I pick one up, sending a reverberating wave of metallic noise through the chilly air.  It’s just as balanced in my grasp as it was earlier today, but it’s more difficult to steady my posture now.  My nerves </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>getting the better of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t let them.  I have to give it my all if I’m going to make an impression on these people who are watching me so carefully.  I can’t disappoint.  If I do, I won’t get a good score.  If I don’t get a good score, sponsors won’t be willing to spend their money on precious gifts.  If I don’t get precious gifts, my chances of survival drop drastically.  It’s all connected, and a lot is riding on this one fifteen minute session.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No pressure, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A trainer suited up in thick body armor meets me in the center of the gymnasium.  No hard foam substitutes for me this time.  He has one, but not me.  It’s not all that impressive to watch someone fight with a fake sword, is it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is the same.  All the basics, techniques, everything.  I just have a real sword in my hands now instead of something that can’t cause harm.  But everything else should be the exact same.  I just have to remember that this isn’t completely real.  The trainer is protected and prepared for this.  I can’t hurt him.  The real question is, though, am </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>prepared for this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to be.  There’s no other choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath to calm my frantic mind, I start my session and lunge at the armored trainer.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rowena bombards me with a flood of eager questions the second the elevator doors open on our ninth floor apartment.  “How did it go?”  she chirps.  “What did you show them?  Did they say anything?  Do you think they liked you?  How do you think you did?”</p><p>I sit her down at the dining table before she explodes and tell her what happened during my private session.</p><p>The trainer and I fought for at least five minutes straight, and he did not take it easy on me in the slightest.  Still, despite suffering a few minor defeats, I indisputably came out on top and showed the Gamemakers my ability to fight with a sword.  They seemed impressed with my accomplishments, some nodding their heads and others jotting down notes in their notebooks while I stood panting like a dog in the center of the gymnasium.  Overall, I was proud of myself.  I was so proud, in fact, that before I was dismissed from my session, I managed to muster up enough confidence to slice off some limbs of one of the training dummies, just for extra flair.  That really sparked the Gamemakers’ interests.  The Head Gamemaker thanked me with the faintest trace of a smile, and then I was free to return to my apartment.</p><p>I think I did really well.  I was nervous and botched the first few sets of moves, but after that, after I brushed off the initial jitters of being watched and judged, I showed those people I’m not someone to be messed with.  I’m pleased with what I did down there.</p><p>Bobby, who quickly joined us at the table when I started my story, gives me a smile of his own.  “Sounds like you did some good work, kid,”  he remarks.  “We’ll have to wait and see what score they give you tonight.”</p><p>They usually broadcast all the tributes’ scores a few hours after the final session, one being the worst and twelve being the very best, essentially unattainable.  We should be able to find out what we received sometime after dinner.  I can’t wait, but I’m also beyond afraid of what number is going to flash on the screen next to my face.</p><p>Cas returns to the apartment almost exactly fifteen minutes after I did.  I try to read his expression as Rowena excitedly motions for him to join us, but it’s indecipherable.  I hope his session went okay.</p><p>“How did it go?”  I ask him before Rowena has a chance to babble all of her questions.</p><p>As he sits, he draws a full breath, a small smile adorning his face.  “Good,”  he says.  “I just threw knives around at the targets for a few minutes, then aced the edible plants and insects quiz right in front of them.  I think they liked me enough.  I don’t know.  It went well as far as I could tell.”</p><p>There’s only one way to find out.  We eat an expeditious dinner and gather in the living room to wait for the nationwide broadcast to begin.  I sit on the sofa in between Rowena and Cas.  Bobby, Crowley, and Meg all occupy velvety bean bag chairs.  Hardly anyone speaks as we anticipate the scoring.</p><p>I can’t help but think of everyone back home—my parents, Sam, Charlie, even Cas’ family—as the annual Hunger Games host, Caesar Flickerman, appears on the large screen.  They’re undoubtedly watching the same broadcast right now, awaiting the reveal of the scores of their loved ones.  Are they excited?  Terrified?  Too panic-stricken to even look at the screen?  Wondering if we’re doing okay?  I wish I could tell them all that we’re managing, that we’re working well together, that we have a rough plan for our survival in the arena, but I can’t, and that’s almost worse than the stress of finding out our scores.</p><p>Caesar Flickerman has been the host for as long as I can remember, and it shows.  His skin has faint traces of wrinkles, but clearly the advanced techniques of Capitol surgery have kept him as young as they can.  Despite the faded lines on his face and the near-imperceptible bags beneath his eyes, his energy and enthusiasm is far from old and aged.  He always changes his color theme for his hair and suit every year, too, and this year, it looks like he’s decided on a pastel green.</p><p>As usual, the score reveal starts with District 1 and works toward District 12.  I’m not surprised when Cresh pulls a high score of ten.  I must clench my fists without realizing, too, because my attention is startled away from the television when Cas gently pats my forearm.</p><p>The other boy from District 1 gets a nine.  The ones from 2 also each receive nines.  Caesar gradually works his way through the list of tributes, and most of their scores range from four to seven.  One of the boys from 4 and one from 6 receive an eight, but otherwise, the scores are rather low.  I feel like I should be relieved by this, but I can’t, not when the reveal of our scores creeps closer and closer with every passing second.</p><p>Finally, Caesar reads off the score of six for the second boy from District 8.  My face flashes on the screen next, and the whole world skids to a halt around me.  My heart pounds.  I can’t breathe.  I can’t even bear to look at the screen, and not even the reassurance of both Rowena and Cas gripping my hands can calm me down.</p><p>“Dean Winchester, from District Nine, with a score of…”  Caesar pauses for dramatic effect, like he always does, and it’s agonizing.  Just get it over with.  “...nine.”</p><p>I think Rowena forgot she was holding onto my hand because when she jumps up to give a squeal of delight, she almost rips my shoulder out of its socket.  But I barely notice.  I’m too overwhelmed with a surge of conflicting emotions.</p><p>A nine!  I actually pulled a nine!  My score is somehow right up there with the rest of the Careers, which is both exhilarating and horrifying for a multitude of different reasons.  I can’t believe I managed to receive a nine.  I thought I’d be lucky to get a seven, maybe even an eight due to my lack of experience, but a nine?  It never even crossed my mind, but I’m elated.</p><p>I’m showered with congratulatory praises from our team and Cas, who’s grinning like I’ve never seen before.  Bobby even mentions that it’s possible the Gamemakers saw my fight with Cresh and took a liking to my attitude, too.  I’m not sure how true his guess is, but I’ll take it.  I received a decently high score considering the little amount of confidence I had prior to the session, and I couldn’t be happier.</p><p>Cas’ face flashes on the screen next; everyone quiets down in an instant.  “And Castiel Novak, from District Nine, with a score of…”</p><p>I hold my breath.  Is the dramatic effect really necessary?</p><p>“...eight.”</p><p>Rowena is on her feet again.  The congratulatory praises echo through the air, and I give a wide-eyed Cas a hefty pat on the shoulder.  We both pulled great scores for people who just started training a few days ago.  Being fast learners has its perks, doesn’t it?  I’m proud of him for braving the weapons and stepping out of his comfort zone.  He should’ve gotten a higher score than me for his incredible accuracy with the knives, but an eight is still remarkable.  He deserves it.</p><p>I’m proud of us.</p><p>We stuff ourselves with a celebratory vanilla cake and blueberry pie that Bobby ordered, chatting and giggling with relieved euphoria, and then it’s off to bed.  Tomorrow we have a full day to prepare with our team for the televised interviews with Caesar the following evening.  It’ll be a lot more laid-back, hopefully, but the pressure of the looming Games is still there, and it won’t be going away any time soon.</p><p>In the morning, after a hearty breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and bacon, Rowena and Bobby tell us the plan for the day.  We’ll spend roughly four hours with Rowena to work on our public speaking and presentation skills, then another four hours with Bobby to figure out what kind of demeanor we want to portray to the audience.  This sounds like a lot of work for a three minute interview, but I can’t complain.  Rowena is clearly excited about working with us, and I don’t want to dampen her spirits.</p><p>Rowena starts off our session by making us walk lines in the living room so she can adjust our posture and correct our footing to make it look like we’re sauntering with self-assurance.</p><p>“Confidence is key!”  she trills as she practically rips my shoulders back to straighten my stance.</p><p>After she deems our walks as perfectly poised—or at least perfectly poised enough—we move onto seated posture.  She debates between a nonchalant, relaxed pose and an unbending, elegant pose for quite some time before she lets it go and just tells us to do whatever feels right, as long as we’re not slouching too much.  We just have to make sure to smile at all times and address the audience frequently.  They’re here to see and get to know us, after all, the very night before we’re sent off for slaughter.</p><p>It’s too early in the morning to have those kinds of thoughts.</p><p>Rowena makes us answer some basic questions that Caesar might ask us in the interview—like what we think of the Capitol, how training went, our families back home—and corrects us when we pause to think or hesitate on a response.  Since we only have three minutes, it’s important to always keep talking.  If our answers aren’t rude or illogical, anyway.  We run through the questions a few times before we finally start to get the hang of how she wants us to respond, and that’s with mirth and eloquence.</p><p>As the end of our session nears, Rowena has one more thing she wants to go over with us.  Apparently she’s put a lot of thought and effort into it because she pulls out a small notebook and flips through the pages, an eager grin lighting up her face.</p><p>“So, as I’ve told you many times,”  she begins, coming to a stop in her notebook, “you’re both very handsome young men.  That got me thinking.  It would be too excessive to have you share the same type of demeanor.  I know this is Bobby’s job, but would you at least like to hear my ideas?”</p><p>I exchange a glance with Cas.  Why not?  She seems beyond thrilled to tell us her thoughts.  Why not indulge her a little?</p><p>I quickly regret that decision.  While she tells Cas that he would be more suited to display an endearingly adorable demeanor—which I can agree with—she then tells me that I would be suited to display a coquettish behavior.  Sexy, provocative, flirtatious, all the words that do not mingle well with me, let alone a sixteen-year-old in general.</p><p>Before I can object, Rowena has me flash a lopsided smirk, one with a simpering half-smile and a slightly raised brow.  I barely even make an attempt because I’m sick of this idea already, but it still must look good somehow.  Rowena almost shrieks with delight.  Then she has me run my hand through my hair, but slowly and tantalizingly, because apparently that’s a thing people do when they’re trying to be alluring.  I wouldn’t know.  I’ve never done any of this in my life.  There’s never been a need to.</p><p>“Amazing, darling!”  Rowena gushes.  I can’t hate her, though.  She’s just doing her job, trying her best to make sure we do well for the audience.  “All the ladies are going to go <em>crazy</em> when they see you.”</p><p>I’m not sure why, but I spare a glance at Cas.  He’s looking down at the floor and picking at his fingernails again.</p><p>It’s time to work on content and attitude with Bobby.  He gives us a small handful of snacks to munch on as we take a seat on the sofa and he sinks down in one of the bean bag chairs across from us.  Cas is so pressed up against my side that our legs brush as we sit, but he doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do I.</p><p>Bobby stares at the two of us for a while, rubbing his chin and seeming to be deep in thought.  “I’m trying to decide how to present you both,”  he finally muses.  “Castiel, you’re shy and quiet but clearly pack a punch with those knives.  We could either go down that route and present you as reserved and fierce, or we could just play the timid card the entire time because a lot of people find that adorable.”</p><p>When Bobby turns his attention to me, a wave of apprehension swarms my mind.  Don’t say provocative.  Don’t say provocative.</p><p>“Dean, you’re a wild card,”  is what he ends up saying.  I don’t know if I should relax yet or not.  “You were valiant when you volunteered for your brother.  You were ferocious and slightly risqué at the parade—well, both of you were.  You seemed diffident before training started, but then you got yourself into a fight with a strong Career tribute and stood your ground.  Then you managed to pull a nine for your training score, and on top of it all, it seems you have a soft spot for your district partner.  I don’t know what direction to take with you.”</p><p>Soft spot?  What does he mean by that?  I mean, I care a lot about Cas and want to make sure he stays safe—I made a promise to myself and to his little brother—but I can’t figure out if Bobby’s words are a compliment or a snide remark.  <em>Soft spot?</em></p><p>I don’t have long to decipher his meaning.  He looks to Cas again, whose face is ever so slightly tinted pink.  “I think endearing and bashful will work well for you, especially if we sprinkle in just a bit of confidence and ferocity to spice things up.  How does that sound?”</p><p>Cas merely nods, and Bobby laughs because he says they won’t have to work very hard on the bashful part.</p><p>Now it’s my turn to decide on an approach.  I’m fresh out of ideas, so I won’t be of assistance.  I’m not bold and arrogant like the Careers.  I’m not hilarious or witty.  I’m certainly not flirtatious or coy like Rowena seems to think so.  I’m just me, plain and simple.  I don’t know how we’re supposed to translate that into a specific behavior for the audience, the deranged people who will practically be leaning out of their seats to get to know us before they watch us fight to the death on live television the following morning.</p><p>Great.  Now I’m just angry.  Why is this interview even necessary?  It’s three minutes of pointless questions.  Why should we waste our time making ourselves look pretty and presentable just to please the people who will only be cheering for our deaths the next day?  I know it helps with attracting sponsors, but it’s disgusting.  They’ll pretend to like us then, but that will undoubtedly change in a heartbeat when someone bigger, someone stronger, strikes us down in a clash of weapons and brutality.  They cheer for bloodshed, not who we are as humans.</p><p>Bobby’s suggested demeanor for me is lionhearted, slightly snarky and witty, and most importantly, fiercely protective of who I care about.  That part is true—it’s the whole reason why I’m sitting here right now—but I’m too frustrated to really question his other ideas.  I just want to get this over with as fast as possible.</p><p>He asks us some of the same questions Rowena did so we can practice our new attitudes, but I end up snapping most of the answers back at him.  I don’t mean to.  My mind is just crowded with thoughts of the audience and how sick they are in the head for encouraging things like this.  I’m not mad at him or Cas.  I hope they don’t take my sudden hostility the wrong way, so I try everything I can to push my feelings aside so I don’t turn this entire practice session into a sour environment.</p><p>I’m not surprised when Bobby stops the questions to flash me a look.  Now I’m really going to get it.</p><p>“I know you’re not happy about all of this, Dean,”  he says in a shockingly gentle voice.  I’m taken aback.  “The Games are getting closer.  There’s a lot of pressure.  I know how you’re feeling, but at least try to pretend like you’re having a decent time.  It’s a reality show.  All these people want is a little fun.”</p><p>Back to angry.  That didn’t last long.  “So watching kids kill each other is fun?”  I snap.</p><p>“I’m not saying it’s right,”  Bobby counters.  “I’m just saying you have to play along, no matter how much you hate it.”</p><p>“Why should we play along?”  My blood starts to boil.  I can’t stop myself.  “These people took us from our homes, our families, just so they can, what?  Dress us up in costumes and pretend to care about our feelings and who we are and then turn around and place bets on how long we’ll live?  How are we supposed to play along with people like that?  It’s stupid!  It’s stupid and horrible and morbid!”</p><p>I’m more furious than I’ve been all week, maybe even my entire life, and it only worsens when Bobby heaves a sigh and orders a drink from one of the servants.  “You need to learn how to handle your stress instead of just exploding with rage out of nowhere.”</p><p>I can’t do this anymore.</p><p>I can hear Cas saying my name, can hear Bobby letting go of another sigh, but I don’t stop.  I need to be alone.  I storm into my room and slam the door shut so forcefully that it rattles my bones, and even that isn’t enough to appease my blinding indignation.</p><p>This isn’t fair.  None of this is fair.  They’ve taken <em>everything</em> from me, and they expect me to just chat and laugh along with Caesar Flickerman like there’s nothing at stake?  Like my life won’t be on the line in less than a day?  They’re crazier than I thought if they really expect any of us to be calm and rational during those ridiculous interviews.</p><p>I throw each and every one of my pillows against the wall, across the room, anywhere.  I hate the Capitol for creating the Hunger Games.  I hate the Capitol for coming up with the Quarter Quells.  I hate the Capitol for putting us through so much torture, so much agony, all for their entertainment.</p><p>I kick over the nightstand.  I hate the Capitol for tearing my family apart.  I hate the Capitol for killing Cas’ brother and then forcing him into the same situation six years later.  I hate the Capitol for thinking murder is okay, and I hate them for the fact that I might never see the people I love ever again.</p><p>All for a sick and twisted excuse for a reality show.</p><p>I have nothing else to throw, nothing else to take my anger and frustration out on.  So instead, I pick up a pillow, collapse to the floor, and scream into the fabric until my throat is raw.</p><p>There are occasional knocks on my door; I make no effort to let anyone come in.  One of them is probably Cas wanting to make sure I’m okay, but I don’t want him in here.  I’m not mad at him by any means.  He did nothing wrong, but my mental state is far from stable.  I don’t want to accidentally yell at him.</p><p>I hope he knows none of this is his fault.</p><p>I’m still seething on the floor by the time Rowena knocks on my door to let me know dinner is ready, and thankfully, she doesn’t pressure me when I don’t answer.  I can’t go out there.  Not right now, not like this.  I might erupt again, and I’m already embarrassed enough about the first one.  Better if I just stay in here and cool down.</p><p>That’s wishful thinking on my part.</p><p>No tears ever come, just pure resentment for everyone who plays a role in creating the stupid Games.  My throat burns and stings with every breath I take.  My hands tremble.  I can’t control them.  I can’t control <em>anything</em> here, and that only makes everything worse.</p><p>I want to go home.</p><p>I curl up with the pillow and hold it close to my shuddering body until the anger subsides and allows me to rest.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Warm sunlight streaming in through the tall window is what rouses me from my unrestful sleep.  One glance at the azure sky outside tells me it’s well past dawn.  I’m surprised no one woke me up earlier.  It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>the big interview day, after all.  Maybe they wanted me to sleep off the fury from my outburst yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, yeah.  That happened.  I’d almost forgotten for a few blissful moments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m still a bit embarrassed about lashing out at Bobby and in front of Cas.  I’m not saying my anger wasn’t valid—it certainly was—but Bobby was right.  I could’ve handled it better.  I have a bad habit of bottling up my emotions until I reach a breaking point, and the result is usually an outburst of rage.  Either that, or a complete nervous breakdown.  I guess I should be grateful that didn’t happen, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are still traces of indignation coursing through my veins, but I try to let them go.  I’ll really be in trouble if I miss breakfast, too.  I push myself up to a seat and almost cry out in pain.  Every muscle, every joint in my body screams in protest as I move.  That’s what I get for passing out on the floor, I suppose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a minute to tidy up the room I almost destroyed last night, and then, with an apprehensive breath, I open the door and venture to the dining table, where I see everyone is already gathered and eating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here goes nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one speaks as I approach the table.  I don’t glance up from the floor, but I know they’re all looking at me.  I can practically taste the tension in the air.  The chair squeaks much louder than I would’ve preferred as I pull it back to take a seat, wanting nothing more than to shrink down into my shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can see Cas’ eyes watching me, glinting with concern and care.  Even Rowena has a sympathetic expression adorning her face.  Bobby has returned his attention to his plate of food, almost acting like I never arrived to the table at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was a mistake.  I’ve messed everything up with my uncontrolled outburst yesterday.  Is it too late to retreat back to my room?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I really should apologize.  Even though my anger was true and justifiable, there was no need for me to cause such a scene, act like such a brat, and now I’ve made people worried about me.  If I don’t say something, this awful silence will destroy me from the inside out.  It’s unbearable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just drawing a breath to speak when Bobby cuts me off.  “You don’t have to apologize,”  he says, looking up from his plate to meet my wide eyes.  He doesn’t seem annoyed or upset with me, but rather, understanding.  I’m not sure why, but that simple sentence is enough to lift a massive weight from my shoulders.  It’s like I can breathe properly again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know how stressful this is for you both,”  our mentor continues.  “I went through these exact situations when I was your age, too.  Lots of emotions is common.  The best thing you can do is just try to approach everything with a level head.  It’ll help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not quite sure what to say.  This is the nicest I’ve ever seen Bobby.  Is this even Bobby?  Who knows.  I’m just relieved he doesn’t hate me, and as I murmur a sincere thanks, the insufferable tension that hung in the air when I arrived slowly begins to dissipate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A level head.  Easier said than done, but I’ll have to give it my all.  I’m determined to make it through this day without another horrible outburst.  I know I can do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After breakfast, Cas and I are set to be handed over to our prep teams and stylists to prepare for the interview later this evening.  Before we’re separated, though, I grab his arm and pull him aside, hopefully out of earshot of everyone in the apartment.  I may not have been able to apologize to Bobby, but I at least want to make sure Cas knows I was never mad at him.  The thought of it has been gnawing on my insides all morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is exactly what I ask him as he looks up at me with a curious gaze.  “You know I’m not mad at you, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,”  he replies with a faint smile, without missing a beat.  “You were just mad about all the torture that’s being inflicted on us.  I get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but return his smile, and his own begins to widen until it sparkles in his bright blue eyes.  “I was just worried you thought it was your fault somehow, especially with how I didn’t want to talk to anyone until now, and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean.”  Cas breathes out a laugh, looking more gleefully amused than I’ve ever seen him.  “It’s okay.  I’m serious.  All is forgiven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s as far as our conversation gets before the prep teams grow impatient and drag us into our separate rooms.  But I said what I wanted to say, and I’m so relieved about his good-natured response, in fact, that I don’t object when my prep team starts plucking out any stray eyebrow hairs that either grew back or they missed during my initial visit to the Remake Center.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fix my brows, coat my skin in that same citrus-scented foam from before, cut and file my nails until they’re all perfect and symmetrical, and hose me down in the shower at least three times.  The citrus smell is so strong that it makes my eyes water, but like before, I will admit that my skin feels fantastic.  They then start the long and arduous hair and makeup process.  Hairspray, comb, hairspray, comb, repeat until my hair is surely about to fall out.  A thin layer of pale makeup to mask any blemishes.  A silky gloss on my lips to make them soft and stand out.  More glitter on my cheekbones.  And finally, the dark eyeliner to bring out the green flecks in my eyes.  My outfit for the interview must be fairly similar to the parade if the team did the same hair and makeup on me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost ridiculous how much solace washes over me when Crowley enters the room with a sleek garment bag.  I suppose after listening to the incessant chit-chat from my prep team for the past few hours, Crowley’s subtle wit and charm is a warm welcome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside the garment bag is a lustrous jet black suit, vest, and undershirt, somewhat like the one Crowley always wears.  All three of the pieces shimmer with silver sparkles in the light.  The prep team is already ogling over it, and I haven’t even put it on yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interior of the suit is beyond silken.  It’s like I’m wearing a cloud.  The vest hugs my torso, perhaps a bit more tightly than I would’ve preferred, but it brings out my form, I suppose.  But the </span>
  <em>
    <span>suit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the suit is so stunning and breathtaking that I’m at a loss for words when I stare at it in the mirror.  I sparkle every time I turn, every time I catch the light, and there will definitely be a plethora of bright lights during the interview.  I look like a star, shining in the darkness of the universe.  It’s incredible.  I don’t know what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My prep team barely has a chance to gush their praises about how amazing I look before Crowley dismisses them with a wave of his hand.  They seem disappointed, but they leave the room without arguing, leaving my stylist and me alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thoughts?”  he asks with a smirk as the door shuts, like he already knows what my answer is going to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes me a moment to regain the ability to speak.  “Phenomenal,”  I manage to gasp out.  The glitter on my cheekbones perfectly matches the silver sparkles on my suit, and they shimmer together in beautiful unison.  I can’t get over how sensational I look.  With the outfit and the hair and the makeup all combined, it creates a weapon of fierce and powerful beauty.  I don’t know how Crowley does it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready for the interview, then?”  my stylist asks, and suddenly my elation begins to dissolve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,”  I sigh.  I was so caught up with how striking I look that I forgot why I’m even dressed up in the first place.  To sit on a stage and be forced to answer personal questions while the audience praises me, then makes bets on my survival when I’m not looking.  At least I had that blissful joy while it lasted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley seems to pick up on my discomfort.  He furrows his brow, takes a step closer to me.  “You’re upset,”  he remarks.  “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How he was able to come to that conclusion so quickly is beyond me, but he isn’t incorrect.  “Everything about the interview,”  I say.  My stomach is starting to twist into uncomfortable knots.  “What’s the point in getting to know all of us when twenty-two or twenty-three are just going to end up dead in a few weeks anyway?  It’s awful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seemed to like the parade, though,”  Crowley points out, although his tone isn’t disapproving or accusatory.  Dare I say his expression is understanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s right.  I did end up enjoying the parade after I got used to the crowd, but this is on a whole different level.  “It’s not really the same,”  I tell him.  “That was from a distance.  People were just looking at me.  They weren’t trying to pry into my personal life and ask about my family and the things I care about.  Now they’re trying to get to know me, the real me, the night before I’m sent off to the arena for murder.  It’s not right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A faint smirk lights up Crowley’s face as he reaches over to smooth a ruffle in my suit.  “Nothing about the Hunger Games is ever quite right, darling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about the twinkle in his dark eyes, the deep and reassuring tone of his voice, eases the frenzy in my mind.  He’s from the Capitol and works with people in charge of the Games, yet he almost seems to have the same opinion on everything as I do.  Are those his true feelings?  Or is it just to soothe my worries?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be up front during your interview,”  my stylist continues before I have a chance to think.  Whatever the cause for his encouraging words, I’m glad he seems willing to support me.  “If you get nervous, just remember I’ll be down there cheering for you.  Maybe you can pretend like you’re talking to me, or Castiel.  You two are close, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect.  Just pretend like you’re having a chat with him, and the three minutes will be over before you know it.  You can do this, Dean.  I know you’ll be great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We wait near the dining table for Meg and Cas.  We still have time before the interviews begin, but as usual, Rowena wants us there as early as possible, just to make sure we don’t miss anything.  Her desire for extreme punctuality never ceases to amaze me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg is the first to exit Cas’ room, and her own sparkly black outfit is as cutthroat as ever.  She flashes me a fleeting but reassuring smile as she pulls Crowley aside to talk with him, leaving me alone at the table.  Their voices are hushed, but it doesn’t sound like they’re discussing anything too important.  Still, I can’t stop my mind from wandering, and the jitters begin to return with a horrible vengeance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Cas finally comes out of his room, though, my scattered attention instantly fixes on him.  He’s dressed in a counterpart suit, but his is strikingly white and shimmering with even whiter sparkles.  He practically glows as the lights reflect off his outfit, and the opposing colors of his jet black hair and dark eyeliner only make him stand out more.  He’s absolutely radiant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I struggle to find words again as he approaches, shoulders slightly hunched and a sheepish smile adorning his face.  I look at his styled hair, the intensity of his eye makeup and sky blue irises, the brilliance of his pristine white suit, and then start at the top all over again.  I don’t stop until I see that his smile has vanished and glance up to meet his wide eyes, the ones glinting with an emotion I can’t quite discern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’ve locked gazes plenty of times before.  Why does this one feel so different?  It’s like the entire world slows to a halt, freezing us in this one moment in time.  My breath hitches in my throat.  A small burst of warmth prickles in the center of my chest.  I can’t look away from his piercing stare, and he makes no effort to move, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I force myself to draw a full breath, to supply my burning lungs, when Cas lets his indecipherable gaze drift down to my glimmering vest, his glossy lips ever so slightly parted.  “You look really good,”  he finally says, glancing back up and into my eyes once more.  His voice is soft and breathy and laced with a tone I’ve never heard from him before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel my heart beating in every limb in my body.  The world is still sluggish, but I manage a smile.  “Took the words right out of my mouth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His cheek gently twitches, a feeble attempt at a smile of his own.  I barely catch his eyes flitting down to my nose or my lips or my vest or wherever before Crowley suddenly clasps my shoulder, and reality warps back to normal in a violent flash.  It almost knocks the air right out of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready to go, boys?”  he asks, glancing between the two of us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel like I’ve just been sprinting.  It’s difficult to regain a stable rhythm of breath.  My heartbeat toils to slow and relax.  The world around me is back to its regular pace, a fixed rate of time, but for some reason, I can’t clear my head.  The best I can do to respond to Crowley’s question is nod, and even that is a bit of a challenge.  I’m not sure what’s happening, or what </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>happen, for that matter.  Nothing is making sense to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes the whole elevator ride to one of the bottom levels of the Training Center for me to feel better again.  The stage that’s being used for the interviews is set up just outside the massive building, and the audience floods the seats in front of it, stretching out far into the streets.  The City Circle is alight with life.  Balconies adorn the sides of the packed seating area, filled with the Gamemakers and esteemed guests and groups of camera crews.  There are people, cameras, bright lights everywhere, and it doesn’t take long for me to fall back into that state of paralyzed fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure if I can do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tributes from District 1 are receiving some final touch-ups from their stylists before they take the stage.  In just a few minutes, the interviews will begin, broadcast to all of Panem, and I’m sickened by the mere thought of it.  I can already hear Caesar Flickerman warming up the boisterous crowd, his energetic voice booming through the evening air.  He sounds prepared.  The District 1 boys look prepared.  I am far from it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley and Meg lead Cas and I to a backstage room while we wait for our turns with the treasured Hunger Games host.  A large television screen flashes on the wall so we’ll be able to watch every tribute before us, so we’ll be able to see how witty and composed and charming they all are, especially my new enemy Cresh, who’s probably just itching to get out there and show off for his adoring fans.  I try not to think about him too much.  He makes my skin crawl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can hear the anthem blaring through the walls of the room.  It’s time for the interviews to begin.  On the screen, my blood starts to boil when I see Cresh parading out onto the stage like he owns the place, and Caesar is playing right into his charade.  The audience screams and cheers at the arrival of the first tribute.  I see Cas sparing a glance at me out of the corner of my eye, clearly trying to make sure I’m all right, so I cast him a fleeting look of reassurance, even though I’m far from it.  I just want to get this night over with as soon as possible.  Then I’ll be happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cresh is rowdy and funny and has the audience completely wrapped around his finger.  He’ll definitely be getting a lot of sponsors.  His district partner is less noisy but equally as charming and hilarious, if not more so.  The District 2 boys are a bit more reserved, but they’re fierce and sharp and witty with their answers to Caesar’s questions.  One by one, the interviews drone on for those three terribly long minutes.  With each buzzer, signaling the end of a tribute’s time on stage, my heartbeat only quickens, nerves only increase until they’re swallowing me whole.  By the time the District 7 boys are getting lined up, my knees are so wobbly that I have to be seconds away from collapsing to the floor in a puddle of stage fright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax, Dean,”  Crowley says, his words slow and gentle.  Always with the perfect timing.  “It’ll be over soon.  Just take a deep breath and try to calm down.  It’ll be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to follow his advice, to take a deep breath and soothe my rattled nerves, but it’s futile.  I’m past the point of being able to relax.  All of the tributes have had such a specific demeanor and personality.  Bold, brash, witty, endearing, fierce, aggressive, humble, kind, and I still don’t know how I’m going to pull off Bobby’s suggestion for me.  Valiant, protective, caring, maybe slightly snarky if I can manage it.  How am I supposed to focus on delivering that behavior when I’m so afraid of stepping onto that stage that I can barely see straight?  That my heart is pounding so furiously that I can hear it inside my skull?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The District 8 boys are preparing to join Caesar in the spotlight.  It’s time for me to get lined up since I’ll be the first of District 9 to be interviewed.  I’m not ready.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just be yourself, sweetheart,”  Meg tells me, her arms crossed over her chest and a sly smirk on her face.  “The crowd already loves you from the parade and for volunteering for your little brother.  They’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be up front, too,”  Crowley adds.  “Remember what we talked about, and you’ll do great.  You’ve got this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Remember what we talked about.  Deep breaths.  It’ll be over before I know it.  Pretend like I’m just chatting with Cas.  They’ll love me.  I can do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good luck, Dean,”  I hear Cas say as Crowley takes me behind the stage, where I can just barely see the second District 8 boy finishing up his interview.  He and Caesar stand, eliciting an uproarious applause from the audience, and as he slips past me and toward the Training Center elevators, it’s my turn to take his place on the vast stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley whispers a final word of encouragement, gives me a small push, and disappears down into the crowd.  I’m alone backstage, and I have no choice but to move forward, toward the waiting audience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar Flickerman calls my name, and I force myself to take the stage.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s like I’m moving through water.  It’s difficult to move my legs.  I can hardly hear anything over the shrill ringing in my ears, but I know the audience is shrieking and cheering with delight as I cautiously make my way to the center of the stage where Caesar is waiting for me.  My heart hammers.  My hands tremble.  Thousands upon thousands of eyes are staring right at me, and grabbing Caesar’s outstretched hand is more of a stabilizer for me than an act of greeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cannot do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least we get to sit during the interviews.  I’d surely pass out if we had to stand.  I clasp my shaking hands together in my lap, desperate to hide how nervous I am, and force myself to look at Caesar’s pastel green wig and pale makeup as the audience slowly quiets down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome, Dean!  Welcome!”  Caesar exclaims, and it takes me an agonizingly long second to register his words and give him the brightest smile I can muster up.  The stage lights are so hot and suffocating.  “So, the Capitol must be quite different from your home back in District Nine.  How’s city life been treating you so far?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t panic.  Don’t panic</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I see Crowley sitting down front.  He gives me a near-imperceptible nod of his head, reminding me to remember his words.  Stay calm.  Take a deep breath.  Be myself.  Pretend like the question is coming from Cas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn back to Caesar and, with another attempt at a smile, I manage to string together a response from the jumbled mess in my mind.  “Well, it’s definitely a lot busier, that’s for sure.  I usually go to bed when it gets dark out, but you guys like to stay up and party all night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wave of relief—at least I think it’s relief—floods through me when I hear a series of chuckles and noises of agreement coming from the audience.  Caesar, on the other hand, I’m worried is going to fall out of his seat from laughing so hard.  I don’t think what I said was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> funny, but that’s what Caesar is best at.  Making sure each interview stands out, regardless of how anxious or awkward the tribute is.  I can appreciate that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t even think about that, but I suppose we do!”  the enthusiastic host laughs.  “Not the party type then, Dean?  What’s it like in District Nine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hot and disgustingly humid.”  My smile widens when another small chorus of chuckles rises up into the evening air.  Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.  “And in the winter, there might as well be snow coming out of our ears.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like you get every forecast imaginable over there,”  Caesar remarks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty much,”  I agree with a feeble laugh of my own.  “But it’s home.  It’s quiet, the people are friendly, and it’s spacious.  I couldn’t ask for anything else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now the audience murmurs gentle ahhs of sympathy.  There they go acting like they know me, like they care about me.  That familiar indignation begins to seep into my veins, but thankfully Caesar continues before I get too worked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So sweet,”  he gushes.  “We’ll come back to that, though.  Right now I want to know how training went for you, Dean.  We all saw you received a fantastic score of nine.  Do tell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance up at the balcony that holds the group of Gamemakers.  Most of their expressions are blank as they gaze down at me.  “Training went well,”  I manage to say.  I’m  about to make a comment on how afraid I was at first, but then I remember what Bobby said.  Be lionhearted and fierce.  I rethink my words quickly.  “A lot of the other boys tried to intimidate us, but it didn’t work on me.”  That’s a lie.  “I just focused on making myself better and stronger.  And I think it paid off, too.  I mean, I got a nine for my score, didn’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, maybe a little too bold and arrogant there, Dean.  Now the other tributes are going to think you’re not scared of them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the audience loved it.  Rowena’s advice briefly flashes through my mind, about being coy and flirtatious, and even though I’m far from it, the crowd seems to react strongly to anything I do.  Might as well go the extra mile and really make sure they remember me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn toward everyone watching me, cast them the most coquettish smile I can, and run my fingers through my crunchy hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The response is instantaneous and uproarious.  Excited shrieks from both men and women echo into the sky.  They’re so loud that I can feel the vibrations.  These people are crazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So dauntless and cheeky!  I love it!”  Caesar cackles.  “You must have a lot of admirers back home.  Tell me, Dean.  Is there a special someone you had to leave behind in District Nine?  A girl, perhaps?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd falls so silent that you could hear a pin drop.  I see some of them leaning out of their seats, eyes wide and expressions agog, anticipating my answer.  Most of the other tributes were asked the same question.  Some said yes, others said no, and some managed to avoid the topic altogether.  I wish I’d gotten that lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,”  I say, shaking my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar looks aghast.  I even hear a few gasps of disbelief coming from the audience.  “You must be joking,”  the host says, hand over his heart, as I’ve just told him the worst news he’s ever heard.  “You mean to tell me that someone as good-looking and charming as you doesn’t have a girlfriend?  I don’t believe it.  Do you, folks?”  He turns to the crowd, and their response is a deafening series of shouts and cheers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This really is a reality show.  All they care about now is whether or not a romance is involved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, Dean,”  Caesar continues.  “You can tell us.  I’m good at keeping secrets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I want nothing more than to cut off this conversation before it can irritate me any more, but it’s too late.  Charlie flashes through my racing mind.  Not my girlfriend—I think she’d rather gouge her own eyes out than be with a boy—but my best friend, the one who’s probably watching this interview right now and missing me as much as I miss her.  I wonder what she’s been up to since I’ve been gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about her and my family and my home just makes my heart ache.  I hope it doesn’t show on my face.  “I’m not in a relationship,”  I persist.  “I do have a best friend, though, who just so happens to be a girl, and I miss her a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd murmurs noises of compassion again.  It sickens me, but toying with their emotions is the only way to make an impression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure she misses you, too,”  Caesar says, his expression understanding and tender.  “Is there anything you’d like to say to her?”  He motions toward a nearby camera, which I can see focusing in on my face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wasn’t prepared for anything like this.  But it’s Charlie, I remember, and the rest of the audience doesn’t matter right now.  This might be my only chance to communicate with my best friend before the Games begin, even if it’s just a one-sided conversation.  That’s more than I ever thought I’d get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tune out the hushed crowd, and I look directly at the gleaming camera.  “Charlie, I hope you’re doing okay out there.  I feel like it’s been years since I last saw you, and hopefully it won’t be long until I see you again.  Stay strong until I get back, all right?  Keep an eye on Sam and my parents.  And remember, I miss you, and I love you.”  I pause, thinking back on our final farewell in the Justice Building, and smile.  “Platonically.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some people in the crowd wipe tears from their eyes, while others let out a laugh at my last words.  It’s bold to assume I’ll make it back home and see her again like I promised in my statement, but I can’t exactly be morbid on live television, can I?  I might have to be added to the list of Capitol citizens stifling their flowing tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s so sweet,”  Caesar says.  “And speaking of your dear little brother, Dean, I think it’s safe to say we were all very touched when you volunteered to take his place at the reaping.  Truly an act of love and courage.  What was running through your mind in that moment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My throat starts to sting.  I can’t cry now.  The interview is almost over, surely, but how am I expected to respond to Caesar’s question without letting my voice break?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The audience is dead silent again.  I spare a fleeting glance down at Crowley—another subtle nod of reassurance—and turn back to Caesar, whose sympathetic expression looks so genuine, so sincere.  I made a name for myself in the Hundredth Hunger Games when I stepped up to take Sam’s place and caused a scene at the reaping.  Everyone knew who I was because of that.  Everyone seemed to take an unfeigned liking to me because of what I did for my little brother.  Now they’re anticipating more details to the story, and I have to deliver without shattering to pieces on the stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fear, mostly.  And dread,”  I say, slowly and carefully, fighting to keep my voice unwavering.  “There was no way I was letting him come here.  He’s too gentle.  I couldn’t bear to see him go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A surge of condoling sounds rises up from the crowd, but I barely notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you volunteered to save him, even though you knew it could cost you your own life?”  Caesar asks, his tone soft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod, swallow the lump in my throat, try to keep the tears at bay.  “I had to.  I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I’d let him go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When is this buzzer going to go off?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a heart of gold, Dean,”  Caesar says, “and I just know that your little brother is so proud of you for making it this far.  I know I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buzzer?  Please?  My lungs are starting to constrict.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As an answer to my desperate pleas, the jarring sound of the buzzer echoes through the evening air, signaling the end of my interview.  Caesar wishes me luck and shouts my name as he takes my hand and holds it high into the air.  We stand, and the audience erupts into deafening cheers.  Some of them even stand, furiously applauding and shrieking and chanting my name.  I manage to catch Crowley’s gaze as I scan the riotous crowd, and I can’t help but smile when he gives me a proud smirk and a thumbs-up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did it.  I don’t know how, but somehow, I did it, and I think I did it well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena is backstage, and she scoops me into an embrace so secure that I think she’s cutting off my circulation.  “That was incredible, darling!”  she sings.  “They absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>adored </span>
  </em>
  <span>you!  And when you talked about little Sam!”  She pauses to let out a sigh of affection.  “Outstanding!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice job, kid,”  Bobby adds.  I didn’t have a chance to see him before Rowena enveloped me in her arms.  “Way to tug on their heartstrings.  That’s the way to do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m still so stupefied from the aftereffects of that stressful interview that I actually flash him an appreciative smile as Rowena lets me go.  I despised almost every second of it, but it could’ve gone a lot worse.  The crowd seemed to love me like everyone told me they would.  I was able to somewhat utilize the suggestions Bobby gave me.  I think I was lionhearted.  I think I was fierce.  I think I was flirtatious—Rowena makes sure to tell me she almost screamed when I followed her advice—and I know for a fact that I was protective of the people I care about.  If anything, talking about Charlie and Sam will be the things that win me sponsors.  It was awful, but it’s done, and I’m proud of what I managed to achieve out there on that stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of us wander toward the room Cas and I waited in before our interviews began just in time to see the big screen showing him sitting down with Caesar.  He’s glowing underneath the bright stage lights in that sparkly white suit of his.  He’s striking and irradiant, and he doesn’t appear to be nervous at all.  Either that, or he’s doing an excellent job of hiding it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stand with Bobby and Rowena and watch as Caesar starts the interview.  He asks Cas almost the exact same questions, just slightly varied to keep things interesting.  Cas says his favorite part about the Capitol is riding the streamline glass elevators, which is an answer so simple and endearing that the crowd is already rhapsodizing about him in between questions.  He plays the shy and lovable part perfectly, but I don’t think he has to try at all.  That’s just who he is, and it only sells the sincerity of his interview even more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Caesar then go into a delightful little anecdote where Caesar says how much he used to ride the elevators when he first discovered them because they’re so fun and fascinating.  The two of them joke about taking an afternoon just to travel to the different floors of the Training Center so they can have an excuse to ride the elevator together.  The audience is in stitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar asks Cas about his home life and family back in District 9, and for a fleeting moment, I’m terrified that he’s going to bring up the incident with Cas’ brother.  Not on live television.  That wouldn’t be fair.  My jaw tightens, but much to my relief, that sensitive topic is avoided.  Instead, Caesar focuses the attention on the same question he asked me and all the other tributes thus far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Castiel,”  the Hunger Games host begins, one curious eyebrow raised.  “You’re an adorably handsome young lad.  Is there a girl back home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, the crowd falls completely silent.  All eyes are on Cas as a tint of pink flushes onto his cheeks, barely noticeable through the thin layer of pale makeup.  With a sheepish smile, he shakes his head.  “Nah,”  he says, his voice suddenly much softer than it was moments before.  “Girls aren’t really my thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Intrigued murmurs of confusion swell from the audience.  Caesar’s brows raise even higher.  I find myself unconsciously stepping toward the screen, as if being closer will somehow give me the answer to why another spurt of warmth is prickling in my chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”  Caesar asks.  “What do you mean by that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas takes a deep breath.  I see his shoulders rise and fall, trembling ever so slightly.  He looks like he has a thousand things on his mind but doesn’t quite know what to sputter out first.  Then that sheepish smile returns, and he glances up to meet Caesar’s expectant gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like boys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some people whoop.  Others whistle.  Even more let out affectionate awws.  An interested grin twists onto Caesar’s surprised face, but I hardly notice any of them over the muddled disaster of thoughts careening through my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,”  Caesar remarks as the crowd steadily quiets down.  “Have any of the other tributes caught your attention, then?  A lot of them are rather good-looking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas gives him a faint smile, a lighthearted laugh, but I know the glint in his eyes.  He’s hesitating.  “It would be bad luck if I told, wouldn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t answer the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right you are,”  Caesar agrees with a hearty chuckle.  “Well, hats off to you, Castiel.  I wish you luck, and you’ll have to let us know if you find someone you fancy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I will, Caesar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, the interview is over.  The buzzer goes off.  Caesar grabs Cas’ hand and hoists it into the sky as they stand.  The applause from the audience is so thunderous that I can feel the vibrations in the floor beneath me.  They really adore him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena meets him backstage and wraps him into a tight hug, just like she did for me.  Bobby even offers another heartfelt compliment, too, which surely must be a record for him.  By the time our escort and mentor finish praising his excellent work out there, Cas looks more rattled than I’ve ever seen him.  Shallow breaths.  Wide eyes.  Little to no speaking.  I’m sure it’s only the pressure lifting from the aftermath of that taxing interview, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s something else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar is just welcoming the first boy from District 10 when the four of us pile into the elevator to take it back to our ninth floor apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas hasn’t looked at me since I left for my interview.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A grim silence awaits us in the dim apartment.  It weighs down on my shoulders, makes my heart ache inside my chest, and the pain only worsens when Rowena turns around to face us and I see a steady stream of tears flowing down her cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She and Bobby will not be around tomorrow morning when we’re roused for the Games.  This is the time for our final goodbyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never thought I’d be so distraught thinking about the possibility of never seeing Rowena again.  But here I am, chest burning, throat tightening up, as she pulls Cas and me into a trembling embrace and chokes on a sob.  She cradles my head, gently strokes Cas’ hair.  The soft floral perfume she’s wearing reminds me of my mother, how she hugged me so desperately before I was taken away to the Capitol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How much I miss her and the comfort of my home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Rowena lets us go, she tries her hardest to put on a smile, but the torment shining in her gaze is as clear as day.  “You two boys were some of the best tributes I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with,”  she tells us, her voice wavering with every word she speaks.  “I’m, I’m so sorry this happened to you.  You both deserved so much more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another sob slips past her lips.  Another surge of tears spills from her eyes.  I don’t know what to say.  Is there even a right thing to say in a moment like this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas reaches out and takes her hand.  He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes her palm, and I find myself doing the same with her other hand.  I suppose actions speak louder than words sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rowena’s smile grows.  She sniffles, draws an unsteady breath.  “Good luck,”  she murmurs, giving our hands a delicate squeeze in return.  “I have faith in you two.  You are capable of doing this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, she releases her grasp on us and turns on her heels, disappearing down the silent corridor.  I can still hear her muffled sobs echoing through the cold air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult for me to calm the tension in my body as Bobby steps in front of us next.  Like always, his expression is near-indecipherable, but something about the glimmer in his eyes makes me believe he’s just as torn about our upsetting farewell as we are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any last pieces of advice?”  I ask him.  I don’t sound like myself anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t go for the Cornucopia,”  our mentor says.  “It’ll just be a bloodbath.  It’s not worth it.  Stick together, run far away from that thing, and find water and high ground.  You’ll have a better chance of survival if you stay together at all times, you hear me?  And you’re both very capable of surviving this.  What you did in training proves that much.  Just stay alert, and stay alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s not much else to say.  With those final words of guidance, our time as a team is slowly ticking away.  Rowena is already gone, and I miss her enthusiasm and floral perfume that reminded me so much of my mother.  Bobby, with a firm nod of his head, shakes both of our hands and wishes us luck, and says he’ll see us soon.  Then, he lets go of a tentative sigh and leaves Cas and me alone in the room that only grows more solemn and desolate by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our team is no more.  It’s just the two of us now, and I never imagined I’d be so devastated about the disbandment of something I always tried so hard to despise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sudden silence rings in my ears, fuels the unsettled fire burning in the pit of my stomach.  I spare a glance at Cas, and my movement makes his head turn, too.  For the first time since I left for my interview, we lock eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks exhausted.  He falters, his gaze falling to my chest for the briefest of moments, before he takes a deep breath.  “I’m gonna go get cleaned up,”  he says softly, “and then maybe we can figure out a plan for tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All I can manage is a nod.  I’m losing the strength to speak myself.  A tired, almost nonexistent smile pulls at Cas’ lips as he turns around and makes his way toward his room.  Just as his hand touches the doorknob, though, he glances over his shoulder one last time and meets my stare.  It lasts but a second, but to me, it feels like years, and I don’t want it to end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try not to think about how that could’ve been one of the final times we exchanged looks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hot shower is a blessing after the events of today.  I crank up the temperature, scalding my skin but too preoccupied to care.  I breathe in the steam, revitalize my lungs, wash away the stress gnawing at my muscles, but it does nothing to ease the distress clouding my mind like a dense fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watch as the water turns gray from the eyeliner being rinsed off.  I watch as it slips down the drain, never to be seen again.  I watch as the drain drinks up the river of glitter next, the bold makeup that coated my cheekbones and made me shimmer.  Little by little, I’m stripping away everything that made me memorable, washing it down the shower drain like it never even existed in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My skin is red and numb by the time I dry myself and absentmindedly stumble into a pair of velvety pajamas.  I thought a warm shower would make me feel better, maybe distract me from all the thoughts rampaging through my head, but now that I’m out, everything comes racing back in a storm of frantic worries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  The makeup is gone.  The hair products are gone.  The suit is gone.  Everything that made me who I was at the interview is gone, and looking at the disparate person staring back at me makes my stomach churn and my heart grow heavy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I am no longer the Dean Winchester that the Capitol knows and loves.  I am no longer fierce.  I am no longer bold.  I am no longer witty, charming, strong, flirtatious.  That person doesn’t exist anymore.  He was washed down the drain and whisked away into oblivion.  No, the person I see in the reflection is not that boy at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead I see the Dean Winchester from District 9, the ordinary, modest, penniless farm boy who just wanted to protect his little brother from the cruelty of the Hunger Games, no matter the cost.  He didn’t even bother to think about the consequences of his actions at the reaping.  He didn’t focus on where they would take him, what they would do to him.  All he cared about was making sure nothing happened to the sibling he’d spent his entire life looking after.  Nothing else was important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, as I stand in front of this spotless mirror in my room in the Capitol’s vast Training Center, I stare into the green eyes of the unpretentious farm boy from District 9.  The eyes that are not painted with makeup.  The hair that is not soaked with product.  The face that is blemished in certain places, because he is human.  I stare at him, wondering how he managed to get himself into so much trouble, and I realize he is me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I am afraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I might never see my family again.  The realization crashes down on me like a burning building.  I spent so much time concentrating on making it through the days leading up to the Games that I hardly stopped to think about the harsh reality of where I really am, exactly what I will be tossed into tomorrow morning.  The Hundredth Hunger Games begin in less than twelve hours.  The arena is unpredictable.  What happens after that gong sounds is unpredictable.  There’s no saying what could go wrong once we step off those pedestals, and the endless possibilities terrify me to my very core.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I might never feel the warmth of my mother’s embraces again.  I might never feel the secure, reassuring grip of my father’s hands on my shoulders.  I might never see Sam’s smiling face as he asks me how my day was.  I might never hear one of Charlie’s awful but lovable jokes.  I might never breathe in the warm, open air of the expansive wheat fields I grew to adore and appreciate.  I might never see the place I was born and raised in ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I might not even be alive in twenty-four hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first tear streams down my cheek, and that one little tear is enough to fracture the dam I worked so hard to build up since my arrival to the Capitol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never wanted to be seen as one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>those </span>
  </em>
  <span>tributes.  The ones who break down in public, beg for mercy, plead to be taken back home.  Those tributes are branded as weaklings, cowards, people who have no chance at gaining sponsors or winning the Games.  If you show weakness, the Careers target you.  Nobody sponsors you.  You might as well accept the fact that you’re not going home.  No one likes to see a coward in the brutality of the Hunger Games.  That’s not entertaining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think that’s why I always fought to swallow my tears, stifle my terror, pretend like I wasn’t afraid.  I wanted to show the Capitol that they couldn’t scare me, that they couldn’t turn me into an animal waiting for slaughter.  I wanted to convince them that I was prepared for this.  I wanted them to know that I volunteered to take my brother’s place because I knew that I had a chance in this, and I wasn’t going to back down in the face of the other tributes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But deep down, I think I also wanted to convince myself.  I wanted to convince myself that I truly wasn’t afraid of what might await me in that arena.  I wanted to believe I had a decent chance at winning.  I wanted to believe I had the confidence, the bravery, to stand up to the twenty-two other boys fighting to make it home, just like me.  I wanted to be strong and positive for Cas’ sake because of his agonizing past.  I wanted him to believe we could survive, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now the grim and morbid reality of what we’re being forced into is catching up to me, and I can’t keep up that facade anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How am I supposed to do this?  I’ve never killed anyone.  I’ve hardly even hurt anyone.  How am I expected to keep the two of us alive and safe if the mere thought of taking another human’s life is enough to make my throat sting with bile?  How am I supposed to fulfill the promise I so desperately want to keep if I don’t play along with this sick and twisted game?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How am I going to bring Cas home to his family if I can’t be the courageous fighter I wanted to portray myself as?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sob slips past my lips before I can stop it.  It echoes around the silent bathroom, feeds the pounding migraine in my skull.  I can’t do this.  I don’t want to go to the arena.  I don’t want to kill anyone.  I don’t want to play a part in this ghastly excuse for entertainment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My knees start to give out.  I grip the edges of the sink, watch as the flood of tears drips off my chin and down the drain.  I can’t breathe.  My lungs are on fire.  I try to suppress another rising sob, a panicked cry, but I can’t.  It’s louder than the last, and it burns in my throbbing throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to die.  I don’t want Cas to die.  I don’t want to do this at all.  I just want to go home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knock on my door is what startles me out of my treacherous mind.  I snap up, a whole new wave of terror coursing through my veins when I hear the muffled voice on the other side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?  Are you okay?”  Cas says.  He sounds concerned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t answer.  I won’t be able to without letting out another sob.  I still want to be strong for him, too, despite everything that’s happening.  I’m supposed to be the one looking out for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t give up.  “I heard you through the walls.  Can I come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn on the faucet, frantically splashing my flushed, tear-stained face with ice cold water.  I don’t want him to see me like this.  I’ll just start crying all over again, and I’m afraid I might never stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m scrubbing my skin dry when I hear the door open.  My heart races.  I look awful.  If he sees how blotchy my face is, how much of a mess I’ve become—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas appears in the doorway, free of makeup and in pajamas of his own, and I find myself frozen in place.  It’s too late.  His brows knit in worry, eyes glimmer with tender sympathy.  The sight of him so concerned is enough to make another stream of tears well up in my stinging eyes.  Without a word, he opens his arms, and I don’t hesitate to walk right into them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever unease there was between us instantly vanishes when I melt into his comforting embrace.  I can’t control my shuddering body; he just holds me tighter.  My tears soak into his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  I just want to stay like this forever, wrapped in warmth and security with the only person I’d want to be here with.  I want to stop time and relish every last bit of it, because it sickens me to realize that we may not have another chance once the sun rises tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A trembling exhale, a restrained sob, racks my aching body.  I clutch onto the fabric of Cas’ shirt and nestle into his shoulder.  He’s still alive.  He’s still here with me.  I can still feel his heart beating against my chest, can still smell that faint trace of vanilla on his skin.  He’s okay.  That’s what I try to focus on.  He’s safe and sound, right here, his arms wrapped around me and mine around him.  And I refuse to let him go unless I absolutely have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thumb gently massaging the tense space between my shoulder blades, Cas draws a deep breath.  “Do you want to sit down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My knees have long since given out.  Most of my weight is pressed into Cas, but his support is so consoling, so homely.  I don’t want it to end yet.  “In a minute,”  I tell him, my voice ragged.  I feel him nod in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure what it is that makes the violent sobs reappear with a vengeance.  Maybe it’s the horrible thought that this could be my last moment of peace and safety with him, or my last moments at all, for that matter.  Maybe it’s the way he’s holding me so tenderly, like a mother would a weeping child.  Whatever the case, I can’t stop myself from completely breaking down in his arms, from turning into a blubbering disaster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much for trying to be strong for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squeezes me as I cry, rubs my back and rests his chin on my shoulder.  It’s hard to breathe, difficult to contain the burning spasms in my chest.  I can’t calm down.  Everything is hitting me all at once, and I don’t know what to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,”  Cas soothes.  “I’m right here.  I’m not going anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Great.  Now I’m ugly crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How, how are you so calm?”  I ask in between lurching gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t see him, but I just know there’s a small smile on his face.  I can hear it in his voice.  “I’m not,”  he admits, “but you were always there for me when I was upset.  I want to do the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sobs intensify.  I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how much time passes before I feel myself start to relax, before the tears slowly come to an end and I’m allowed to breathe again.  I think I’ve just cried myself dry.  My entire body is numb and heavy, and there’s a weight on my chest that I can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how many deep breaths I force myself to take.  Maybe I do need to sit down before I collapse and drag Cas with me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He helps me to a seat on the edge of my bed, his grasp not releasing from my arms until he’s sure I’m not going to fall over.  I feel like even more of a lethargic blob without the solace and support of his embrace, but I couldn’t stay upright for any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should probably eat something,”  Cas says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know I should.  I’ve barely eaten all day, but my stomach churns at the mere thought of food.  “I doubt it will stay down,”  I tell him.  My throat is so raw from crying that it hurts to even talk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll get something that’s easy on the stomach.”  With a gentle smile and a reassuring rub on my arm, Cas leaves the room to find me food from, I assume, one of the Avoxes assigned to our apartment.  He’s too nice to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While his absence is fleeting, it makes another wave of panic seep into my blood.  I don’t want to be alone.  I’ve known that from the beginning, but now, with the Games so close, that fear is more powerful than ever before.  I don’t want to be alone in that arena.  I don’t want to be left to my own destructive thoughts, responsible for my each and every move, while people are hunting me like prey.  And I definitely don’t want Cas to be alone.  I think that almost scares me more than my fear of being by myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a great effort to swing my legs up onto the bed and sit with them crossed beneath me.  I lean back against the headboard, heart still racing and mind still plagued with terrible thoughts that I can’t get rid of.  No tears come, though.  I don’t think I have any left to cry.  Instead, I’m left with an aching numbness that oozes into every part of my exhausted body, and to me, that’s much worse than any bout of sobbing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m relieved when Cas finally returns, a bowl and a glass of water in his hands.  I know what’s in the bowl before he even reaches me, just by the delectable aroma.  It smells like lamb stew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stop a reflective smile from stretching across my face.  “This is what I ate with my family the night before the reaping,”  I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas suddenly freezes, his eyes widening.  “Oh, I’m sorry,”  he hurries to say, brows furrowed in concern.  “I can get something else—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,”  I reassure him.  “It’s kind of poetic in a way, isn’t it?  To have it again before tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas tries to match my faint smile as he moves to hand me the piping hot bowl of stew and set the glass on the nightstand.  I thank him, relish the comforting warmth of the bowl, and grab the spoon to take a sip of the broth as he climbs up onto the bed and sits cross-legged in front of me.  For a while, this is how we remain.  I sip on the steaming broth, nibble on the tender pieces of lamb, and Cas gazes down at the blankets, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails.  Neither of us speaks, just enjoys the tranquil silence while we still can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, as my stomach slowly begins to settle down, Cas lifts his head.  “Do you want to talk about anything?”  he asks, his voice so soft I can barely hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs.  “Anything.  I’m really scared, so I thought maybe talking about something would help distract us both.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a bad idea.  No amount of talking will ever free us from the impending sense of doom that’s looming over us, but even if it helps for just a bit, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot.  “You did a really good job at your interview,”  I tell him, munching on the mushy carrots from the stew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another feeble smile tugs at his lips as he looks down, picks at a loose thread on the blanket.  “Thanks,”  he murmurs, “but I didn’t do as well as you.  They loved you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on.  They loved you, too.  You’re probably the one who’s going to win us sponsors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ face falls then.  The color drains from his skin.  He opens his mouth to speak, but it takes a long moment for any words to come out.  “Do you think we have a chance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t specify, but I know what he means.  Do we have a chance at gaining sponsors?  Do we have a chance at surviving the murderous violence of the Hunger Games?  Do we have a chance at making it home to see our families again?  And do I have an answer for him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heave a sigh.  That weight on my chest amplifies.  I have to be honest, no matter how much my heavy heart screams at me not to.  “I don’t know,”  I say.  The words hurt me as much as they seem to hurt him.  “I’d like to think we do, but it’s impossible to tell for sure.  All we can do is stick together and try our hardest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods, returns his scattered attention back to the blankets, but I see his bottom lip beginning to quiver.  In a desperate attempt to keep his tears at bay, I hold the bowl of lamb stew out toward him.  “Here,”  I say.  “You should eat, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t seem convinced.  “Are you sure?”  he asks, arms wrapping around his abdomen and bright blue eyes glimmering with apprehension.  “I don’t want to take it if you’re not done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure.”  I practically place the bowl in his hands.  His fingers brush with mine when I retract them and rest them in my lap.  “We both need the strength.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas stares down at the stew for a beat, seeming to be lost in thought, but he eventually picks up the spoon and murmurs a thanks, his face alight with the tiniest of smiles.  As he sips on the broth and pecks at the lamb, another spell of silence falls over us.  This time, though, it’s not nearly as peaceful as the previous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of us knows what could happen tomorrow morning.  We could both be dead before the initial bloodbath even ends.  And even if we do somehow survive the first few hours of the Games, what then?  We’re not survival experts.  We may have picked up a few tips and tricks during training, but there’s no saying what surprises the arena could hold for us.  Will it be a frozen wasteland?  A scorching desert?  A valley full of venomous creatures?  No one knows, and if no one knows, then we can’t formulate a decent plan of action.  We’re stumbling around in the dark, and my worries only worsen the more I ruminate about it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do know one thing for certain, though.  Despite the terror that’s taking control of me, nothing is going to stop me from doing everything in my power to make sure Cas stays safe.  This has been my promise from the beginning, and I intend to keep it until the very end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I just hope that the very end is the announcement of our victory and not my body being shipped back to District 9 for burial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I clear my throat and take a deep breath to stifle the tears threatening to well up in my eyes again.  I can’t afford to think like that right now.  I just want to focus on the time I have left before sleep, the precious time I have with Cas before we’re thrown into the terrifying unknown.  At least I get to spend my final moments of peace and safety with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he finishes the stew, we attempt to make small talk to lighten the suffocating atmosphere that’s hovering above our heads.  We chat about home but quickly realize that’s too painful to discuss.  We talk about our better moments in training and share a laugh about how he was able to memorize those edible plants and insects quizzes so well.  We poke fun at Caesar Flickerman’s pastel green outfit and makeup theme because it made him look rather bizarre, much like every other person in the Capitol.  That topic leads us to laugh about the hideous and gaudy fashion choices in the city, and for a blissful while, I forget about the Games.  I forget about everything that’s about to happen to us.  It’s just Cas and me engaging in a lighthearted conversation, hanging out like close friends would, and I wish it could last forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All too soon, though, the grim reality of our situation returns, and I realize it’s getting late.  Dawn will be approaching in a matter of hours.  We’re going to need all the sleep we can get because from watching previous Games, I know that sleep is incredibly difficult to come by, and being rested is quite an important aspect of being alert and aware.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can come up with our plan in the morning,”  I say.  Any and all mirth we shared mere moments ago has now vanished without a trace, and I long for the comfort it brought.  “I don’t think there’s much to plan other than how we’ll meet up after the gong sounds, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods.  He looks like he’s going to be sick.  “We should have time to talk on the way there, right?”  His voice has softened to another frail murmur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so.  We won’t be in the same Launch Room, but the hovercraft ride there should be enough time to come up with something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There isn’t much else to discuss.  Time is ticking.  Dawn is nearing.  I know there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that I’ll get any sleep, but I have to try.  I have to be rested enough to make it past the bloodbath.  I just have to be.  Once those first few hours are over, our chances of winning will only continue to increase.  That alone is enough to convince me to crawl beneath my blankets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Cas sets the empty bowl on the nightstand and makes his way toward the door, however, something in my stomach twinges.  My heart drums against my ribs.  I still don’t want to be by myself.  The thought of spending these hours until dawn in aching loneliness is too much to bear.  So before I even know what I’m saying, I call out to him, the words catching in my tight throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas, wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can see the vibrancy of his bright blue eyes piercing through the darkness, can feel his gaze boring into me as I struggle to form a sentence from the jumbled mess in my head.  I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t stand the idea of being alone right now.  Not when we’re so close to facing our deaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you stay with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even in the dim lighting, I see Cas falter.  He raises his brows, seeming bewildered by my request, but he can’t stop a small smile from shining in his eyes.  “Sure,”  he says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wave of solace instantly floods through me when he climbs up next to me, the bed dipping under his weight.  He pulls the blankets over him, lies on his side so he’s facing me.  I stay on my back.  I thought I was comforted enough until he gently rests his hand on my forearm, his skin smooth and warm and so reassuring that my eyelids almost begin to flutter shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Dean,”  he murmurs.  He nestles beneath the blankets, rearranges his posture, and closes his eyes.  Watching the steady rhythm of his breathing threatens to pull me into slumber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before I fall asleep, a new thought surges into my mind, swimming among the river of others.  I’m not sure what brings it to my attention.  Maybe it’s the comfort of having him next to me, his hand on my arm, as we prepare for sleep.  Maybe it’s the conversation we had earlier, or the way he hugged me so tenderly and compassionately as I sobbed myself to exhaustion.  I don’t know.  All I know is that as I glance over at him lying by my side, eyes shut, lips slightly parted, head pressed against the pillow, seemingly at peace, this thought is far stronger than the others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Cas?”  I’m not sure why my voice is trembling.  “During your interview, when Caesar asked you that question about a girlfriend—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t stir.  He must already be asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that’s good.  He needs the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes me a while to quiet my mind, but eventually, after listening to Cas’ calming breaths and relishing his warmth as he lies next to me, I manage to slip into the slumber that I desperately need.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey guys! I'm leaving for a vacation tomorrow, so unfortunately, the next update won't be until July 11. I know, bad timing, what with things kicking off and getting dramatic, but 10 days to wait isn't too bad, right?</p><p>So, I'll be back for the next update on Saturday, July 11! Until then, hang in there, stay frosty, all that jazz. Love you &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’m startled awake when someone prods my arm.  My heart leaps to my throat as my eyes snap open, but instead of finding another tribute waiting to kill me, I see Crowley’s solemn face.  Meg stands a few feet behind him, arms crossed and lips pursed.  My initial alarm slowly fades into terror when I realize why they must be here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time to go,”  Crowley says quietly, sympathy glinting in his dark eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun is just barely beginning to peek over the horizon.  Soft gold and orange hues bleed into the deep indigo sky.  A few lone stars still twinkle up above the cityscape as the moon dwindles to make room for daylight.  It looks like a beautifully serene morning for everyone except us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My veins are already flooded with pure adrenaline, and I’ve only just woken up.  Much to my relief, though, I do feel decently rested.  I could be better, but I could be a lot worse.  At this rate, I’ll take whatever I can get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I draw an unsteady breath in a futile attempt to calm my nerves.  Then I notice the weight on my shoulder.  I glance over and see that Cas has completely nestled up against me, his head resting on my shoulder and his hand still gently grabbing my arm.  He’s so close that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can feel his light exhales on my neck, and it makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.  He must have moved closer sometime during the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to wake him.  He finally looks at peace.  I know that the second I rouse him from his sleep, he’ll see our stylists and remember what must be done today.  I want to stay here, stall forever, never even go to the arena, but I know that’s impossible.  Despite how much they seem to like us, Crowley and Meg have to take us to our Launch Rooms.  It’s their job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take one last look at the reposeful expression on Cas’ face, then force myself to stir him.  “Cas,”  I say, lightly shaking his arm.  “It’s time.  We have to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the few fleeting moments after he opens his tired bright blue eyes, the only thing he sees is me lying next to him.  He doesn’t even have a chance to form a smile before the sight of our stylists catches his attention, and all the blood drains from his face.  At least he seemed happy, even if it was for just a split second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Crowley and Meg give us both a simple jacket to slip on over our pajamas, saying we’ll get dressed in our proper attire in the catacombs beneath the arena, I can’t help but long for the comforting weight of Cas’ head on my shoulder.  Even though he’s still in the room with me, his entire absence leaves a gaping hole in my chest.  I can only imagine it has something to do with the paralyzing fear of what could happen in the next few hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one speaks as we shuffle through our dim and silent apartment for the final time and pile into the elevator.  The tension in the atmosphere is so dense that I can hardly breathe.  Meg presses the button that takes us down to the bottom level of the Training Center, where the hovercraft will be waiting to transport us to certain doom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chill from the night still hangs in the air and clings to my skin.  More gorgeous colors of dawn begin to seep into the sky—I try to take in as much of the sight as I can while I still have the opportunity—as we approach the landed hovercraft.  A sleek ladder protrudes from its belly.  Crowley climbs up and into the massive machine first.  Meg follows suit.  I’m just placing my hands on the cold steel to join them when I hear a terrified whimper from behind me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas looks like he’s on the verge of bursting into tears, emptying the contents of his stomach, passing out on the concrete, or all of the above, in that order.  He’s frozen in place, wide eyes frantically flicking between the ladder and me.  I know it probably won’t do much good in the situation we’re in, but before I climb into the hovercraft, I pull his trembling body into my arms.  He buries his face in my shoulder instantly and curls his fingers around my jacket.  I cradle his head, listen to the panicked beating of his heart, try to savor every last second of this embrace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All too soon, we’re called up into the hovercraft and forced to separate.  I spare him the most reassuring glance I can muster up before I climb the ladder and into the hovercraft.  Once inside, I’m guided to a seat where a small breakfast has been prepared for us.  I wait for Cas to join me, and then the two of us sit and attempt to eat some of the food.  My stomach is a nightmare, but I know I need to eat.  Food will be difficult to come by in such large and delectable quantities in the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the hovercraft lifts into the air and soars over the quiet city, a woman in a white coat approaches me with a syringe.  The sight of it alone threatens to make the little food I’ve eaten come back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your arm, please,”  she instructs.  “For your tracker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hesitantly, I extend my arm out to her.  A sharp, stabbing pain shoots through me and twists my face into a grimace as she injects a small metal device underneath the skin of my forearm.  It glows for a brief moment before it darkens, looking like it isn’t even there at all.  Now I’m officially tagged and eligible for tracking, like some sort of animal.  I probably just lit up one of the Gamemaker’s panels in their fancy control room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas winces when the woman injects the tracker into his arm.  He rubs the spot where the device is embedded long after the woman disappears, his gaze staring a thousand miles out.  I wish there was something I could say or do to ease his distress, but I think we’re past the point of ever feeling calm again.  I’m barely keeping it together myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We force ourselves to eat a majority of the breakfast before we risk immediately throwing it back up.  Then we find Crowley and Meg near the main ladder and sit across from them as the landscape outside the windows slowly shifts to a tranquil forest.  No more city.  No more Capitol.  Just the wilderness where they build the arenas.  The closer we get, the more my frenzied mind turns into a mush of frightened, useless thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stop my leg from bouncing as I glance at the two stylists.  Both of them are grim and somber, their expressions shining with pity and understanding.  I wonder what it’s like to help coach and dress tributes every year, only to watch them get killed a few days later.  I’m sure most of the stylists in the Capitol couldn’t care less—it’s all about entertainment, after all—but something about Crowley and Meg seems different.  It’s like they actually care about us, who we are, what we’re feeling.  Crowley even told me that he always tries to accommodate and help his tributes when I first met him.  I thought he was lying to get me to like him, but now, as I look at them watching Cas and me, I’m starting to believe they’re dreading and despising this as much as we are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach churns.  I have to swallow to make sure everything stays down.  I almost jump when Cas gently taps my leg with his shaking hand, but I know what he wants.  Without hesitation, I take his clammy hand in mine and interlock our fingers so tightly that I’m not sure if we’re going to be able to pry them apart.  I don’t care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you two have a plan?”  Crowley suddenly asks.  “About what you’re going to do and how you’re going to meet up, I mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance at Cas, whose bottom lip is starting to quiver.  I have no idea what to do.  So much chaos happens right after the gong sounds.  “Do you have a suggestion?”  I ask my stylist.  My mind is too muddled to even focus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d pick a direction off the Cornucopia to follow and meet up in,”  Meg chimes in.  “Maybe the tail.  Run off behind the tail and meet somewhere back there.  That’s what one pair did a few years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That sounds like our best bet.  The tail is a prominent point of the Cornucopia.  Difficult to miss.  If we can escape the bloodbath, follow the direction of the tail away from the mayhem, and meet up in safety, we should be golden.  At least for a little while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think that sounds good?”  I glance back at Cas again to make sure he’s okay with the idea.  He only manages a nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The windows go dark without warning.  We must be nearing the arena.  Cas sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes my hand.  I lose more control of my leg the longer this agonizing ride drags on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when the hovercraft trembles and groans as it lands, I suddenly want the journey to keep going forever.  We’ve arrived at our destination, our final stop, and I’m so sick to my stomach that I can barely think about anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not ready for this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg gets up first.  Cas’ Launch Room must be farther away than mine.  He struggles to rise to his unsteady feet, his hand still clinging to mine, and I don’t want to let go.  I’m afraid that if I let go I’ll never see him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see you soon,”  I tell him in a desperate attempt to calm my paralyzing terror.  “Behind the tail.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, skin ashen and bright blue eyes glistening with dread.  “See you soon.”  He barely moves his lips as he speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he releases his grip on my hand and reluctantly follows Meg toward the ladder.  I watch him go, gaze at the back of his head until he turns around to descend the rungs, and we lock stares.  It lasts but a fleeting moment, but time seems to freeze in place.  I will see him soon.  I have to.  I refuse to let anything else happen.  We just have to spend these next few moments apart is all, and then we can regroup again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that optimistic thought does nothing to ease the torturous pain I feel when Cas takes a deep breath and climbs down the ladder, vanishing from my sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like a piece of me is missing.  We’ve spent so much time together upon our arrival to the Capitol that even being separated for launch is enough to stab me in the heart.  Surely it’s only an hour or so before the Games officially begin, but who’s to say our plan will even work?  Anything can happen once that gong sounds.  We might not meet up.  We might get separated for real.  Or worse—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stands, ripping me from my nauseating thoughts.  He gestures toward the ladder, and it takes all the strength I have left in me to rise without collapsing back to the floor.  My legs tremble as I descend the ladder.  My hands are so sweaty that I almost slip off.  Once I safely place my feet on the ground, though, a rush of cold air gusts over my skin.  It’s so dim that it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.  When I glance around, I realize I’m standing in a narrow underground passageway, the catacombs that lie beneath the arena.  Just above my head, past the dark ceiling, is the place that will be my new home for the days—or hours—to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley joins me at the bottom of the ladder and receives instructions from a pair of guards regarding where to take me for launch.  He leads me down the tight corridor and into a small room a few yards away.  Everything inside is completely untouched and brand new.  No one else has used this Launch Room before, and no one else will ever again.  There might as well be signs plastered on the wall that say “Reserved for Dean Winchester.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to keep my racing mind occupied by taking a quick shower.  This will probably be my last chance to feel clean for a long while.  By the time I’m finished, my outfit for the arena has arrived in an immaculate package.  Every tribute wears the same clothes.  Our stylists have had no say in our appearance this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stumble into a pair of dark green—it’s borderline gray—cargo pants with pockets lining the outside of my thighs.  The fabric tightens near my ankles but is comfortably loose otherwise.  Then comes a black long-sleeved shirt that’s a bit more form-fitting, but it’s still plenty breathable.  The material is almost slippery to the touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both of these fabrics are designed to wick away sweat,”  Crowley explains as he fixes the ruffled cuffs of my shirt.  “I’m guessing somewhere hot or tropical.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can only hope and pray that I’m not about to be sent off into some blazing desert while I slip on a pair of sturdy black boots with dark green laces.  They taper off at the middle of my shins, the narrowed fabric of my pants tucked away inside of them.  These must be made for running or hiking long distances.  They’re very flexible and supportive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There isn’t anything left in the package, nothing else for me to put on before I brave the arena, so I can’t suppress a puzzled frown when I notice Crowley retrieving something from his pocket.  He heaves a sigh, looking like he has a thousand different thoughts surging through his head.  He almost seems worried, or hesitant, or something else that I can’t quite discern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I see the small rectangular locket necklace dangling from his grasp on a silver chain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meg and I had a long chat about this,”  my stylist says with a nervous breath.  “Between your courage for saving your brother and the relationship you share with Castiel, you two quickly became our favorite tributes we’ve ever worked with.  Even though you might not believe it, we care about you.  So after some discussion and a trip to the jeweler, we decided to give you both one of these.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He unclips the hook of the necklace and clasps it around my neck.  The chain is short, so the locket just grazes my collarbone.  It’ll take a lot for it to fall off.  But why is he doing this?  I’m sure he and Meg have worked with a great deal of decent tributes.  What makes us so special that they worked together to make and gift us necklaces?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you ever feel like giving up, just open it,”  Crowley tells me.  “Stay strong out there, Dean.  We believe you and Castiel can win this.  You have to.  For your family, and for each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what to say.  He and Meg are rooting for us, two frightened, unpresuming boys from a district that focuses on harvesting grains.  Part of me wants to open the locket now to see what exactly they decided to put in there, but I know I shouldn’t.  I should save it for the right moment, when I feel like everything is crumbling to pieces, just like he said.  Despite everything, I trust him.  He’s helped me more than words could ever describe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,”  I say, absentmindedly twirling the locket in my shaking fingers.  It’s pleasantly cool to the touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s not much else for us to do other than sit and wait for a voice to say it’s time for launch.  Crowley gives me a glass of water to sip on, but even that is a taxing challenge.  My throat is so dry and constricted that it’s almost impossible to drink.  Breathing becomes an arduous chore.  I’ve given up on trying to calm my rapid heartbeat.  Relaxation is futile at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unbridled terror overwhelms me as my thoughts create a variety of horrible scenarios that could happen once that gong sounds.  I could be dead in an hour, maybe less.  Some other tribute could stab me with a knife, cut my throat open, leave me to bleed out on the ground while they move onto their next victim.  The initial bloodbath is brutal and unforgiving.  Anything goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I start to worry about Sam, my parents, Charlie, what they might be doing right now.  Surely there’s some big countdown being broadcast to every television in Panem.  I can’t even imagine the panic they must be feeling, how much they must be fearing for my life, as I am now, deep beneath the arena itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My distressed mind is just beginning to fret about Cas and how he’s holding up when the announcement I’ve been dreading is made.  It’s time to prepare for launch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My legs have turned into mush.  They barely work anymore.  Crowley helps me to my feet and guides me toward the circular metal plate in the corner of the room.  I can’t do this.  I can’t do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take a deep breath, Dean,”  Crowley says.  “Remember what you learned.  Run, find Castiel, get food and water.  Stick together, and don’t give up, no matter how hard it gets.  You can do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages to give my hand a reassuring squeeze just before a glass cylinder lowers around me, cutting me off from him and the rest of the world.  All I can hear is my own frantic breathing.  I can still see him, but not as well as the reflection of my pale, petrified face as it stares back at me, mocking me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One single, encouraging nod is the last thing my stylist gives me before the metal plate starts to rise.  Black spots dance in the corners of my vision as the plate pushes me upward, plunging me into suffocating darkness.  Panic swallows me whole.  What horrors await me at the top of this cylindrical tube?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try with all my might to take a deep breath as light creeps into view.  Slowly, the glass cylinder begins to disappear, and the metal plate lifts me into the open air.  I’m blinded by fear and the brightness of the outside for the briefest of moments, but the very first thing I notice is how unbearably hot and humid it is.  Muggy air clings to me, fills up my burning lungs.  In the distance, birds I’ve never heard before sing pleasant melodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I barely have time to force my eyes open and take in the surroundings of this hell before the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith echoes in my pounding skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Hundredth Hunger Games begin!”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I only have sixty seconds to get my bearings.  Sixty seconds to figure out where I am, what I’m going to do, how I’m going to survive these next few minutes of utter brutality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes adjust to the light, and I see the massive golden Cornucopia situated in the center of the twenty-four metal platforms.  I’m right in front of its mouth.  Piles of boxes and trunks and racks of shiny weapons fill up its interior.  The most valuable things.  Outside, on the ground, are small knapsacks that spill out almost to the edge of the platform I’m standing on.  Less valuable, but anything helps.  I might have to snatch one before I run.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if I’m in front of the mouth, that means I’m on the exact opposite side of where I need to be, where the tail of the golden horn juts up into the air.  At least these shoes are good for running.  I’ll need to use them if I’m going to make it around the entire Cornucopia before someone catches me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The singing birds sound like they’re all around me.  I glance up and am startled to not see the azure sky or the puffy white clouds.  Instead, I find a vast canopy of green leaves, trees that stretch upwards for miles and block out any trace of the sky.  Only faint rays of sunlight are piercing through.  No wonder it’s so hot and humid.  The heat from the sun is seeping in, but the thick canopy of leaves is preventing any of it from escaping again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground beneath my metal platform is dark and rocky and slick with moisture.  Nearby, I hear a stream as the water trickles and gurgles over stones.  Then I see it, narrow and gentle and just behind the tail of the Cornucopia.  Not deep enough to be concerning, but definitely not clean enough to drink from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re positioned in a small glade.  Looming trees with dense trunks, bulky green leaves, and twisting roots surround us on every side, encasing us in this compact area.  The shrubbery is knotted and stout.  I can’t see past the tree line.  The foliage is far too lush and exuberant.  This glade looks like it might be the only place that’s open and airy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remember seeing an arena similar to this before, a number of years ago.  Exotic birds, vigorous and overgrown foliage, monstrous trees that extend up and block out the sky, air that’s so steamy and soupy that it makes it difficult to breathe.  I think I’m standing in the center of a luxuriant rainforest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are twenty seconds left.  Fear consumes me.  I’m already sweating, losing all the water I tried so hard to drink in the Launch Room.  I frantically glance around at the other metal platforms, at the other tributes on either side of me.  I don’t see Cas anywhere.  Only boys from the other outlying districts, looking just as terrified as me.  Where is he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fifteen seconds.  I need a plan.  I should grab one of the knapsacks that’s nearest to me and make a dash for the tail of the golden horn.  Maybe Cas is over there.  Maybe he’ll have a head start to get away from the bloodbath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bloodbath that’s starting in ten seconds.  One of the boys from District 4 is nearby, and I see him twitching with eager anticipation.  He’s already eyeing one of the sharp swords deep into the mouth of the Cornucopia.  For a fleeting moment, I want to go for one, retrieve a weapon to defend myself with, but I’m not that fast of a runner.  By the time I get to the weapon racks, all the Careers will probably be there waiting to gut me.  No.  I should just hope and pray there’s something I can use in the small knapsack I’m going to get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five seconds.  The ticking of the clock echoes and rings in my ears, vibrates in my bones.  Deep breaths.  Stay calm.  Stay focused.  Just grab a knapsack and run.  Find Cas behind the tail.  I can do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gong sounds, and the Hunger Games officially begin.  I catapult myself off the metal platform and onto the hard ground.  Everyone around me makes a mad dash for the tempting mouth of the Cornucopia, but I stay back.  All of my senses are heightened as I rip a knapsack from the rocks and sling it over my shoulders.  I will not partake in the bloodbath, no matter how tantalizing those swords look.  I will not risk my life right off the bat.  I can’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The muggy air quickly fills with the sickening sounds of shouts, clashing weapons, and horrified shrieks.  Each one chills my blood to ice.  I try not to look, try to avert my attention away from the place of violence and bloodshed, but it’s impossible.  I can already smell the metallic tang, can already feel my stomach lurching when I see a small boy get his head bashed against the wall of the golden horn.  Now the spotless paint is splattered with gleaming dots of crimson.  Two more motionless bodies litter the ground by the trunks of supplies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I need to find Cas.  I need to find him now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think my heart is going to explode.  I sprint outside the circle of empty metal plates and around the side of the Cornucopia, hysterically scanning the battlefield for any trace of my district partner.  I still don’t see him anywhere.  Maybe he already left.  If he was by the tail, maybe he just turned around and disappeared into the thick shrubbery before anything could happen.  Maybe he’s safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as I watch countless scared, innocent boys get their throats sliced or skulls smashed in or abdomens stabbed in a flurry of brutal murder, I can’t help but fear the worst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cas!”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I scream.  My trembling voice is almost lost in the sea of yells and agonized cries.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cas!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.  Another boy tries to sneak out of the Cornucopia with a large bag, but he’s caught by one of the Careers.  He snaps that poor boy’s neck like a twig.  I can hear the abhorrent noise even from where I stand; my breakfast bubbles up in the back of my mouth as his body crumples to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of the corpses look like Cas.  I don’t see his jet black hair, the familiar frame of his body.  He must have left.  He must have.  And I should follow before I join the ever-growing pile of the dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I force my frozen legs to move.  I have to get out of here and find Cas.  I dash toward the direction of the tail, but I barely make it five feet before another tribute catches my attention, a bloodied sword in his grasp and a gleefully murderous glint in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cresh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stumble to an abrupt halt.  My heart leaps to my throat.  Cresh is staring right at me, and a dangerous grin is stretching across his face that’s painted with other people’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he stalks toward me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Terror takes control of my racing mind.  He’s going to kill me.  He promised that I would be one of the first ones he got in the arena.  But I can’t let him.  I can’t let him get to me.  I need to run, somehow escape from the sharp blade that has my name written all over it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t follow the tail anymore.  I’ll just lead him straight to Cas.  I can’t risk that, no matter how desperately I want to find my district partner before someone else does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I whirl around so fast that I almost lose my balance, and I sprint off into the dense foliage, in the opposite direction of the Cornucopia’s tail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tangled tree roots bestrew the entire forest floor.  My feet catch on them as I run, hasten away from the boy who I can hear pursuing me like a hungry predator.  I don’t dare look behind me.  I keep my gaze forward, focusing on the vibrant green ferns and bushes and trees that remind me of the skyscrapers in the Capitol.  It gets darker the further I bolt into the forest, but it’s still plenty light enough for me to see where I’m going.  I hop over broken logs, spring over the thick, jagged tree roots, push past abundant greenery, scurry away from my pursuer as swiftly as I possibly can.  I cannot let him catch me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pure adrenaline pulses through my veins.  The shock of my feet pounding against the dirt shoots up my bones.  My lungs are on fire.  I can hear Cresh careening through the shrubbery behind me.  But I don’t slow down.  Not once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think I start to hear his footsteps fade away into the distance when my foot gets caught beneath a knotted root.  It’s too late to stop myself from lurching forward.  I hit the ground hard and tumble down a small hill, rolling over soil and leaves and snapped twigs until I finally collapse to a stop.  Everything hurts.  My vision is spinning, but I clamber to my feet and keep moving.  Quickly.  I don’t know if Cresh is still chasing me or not, but I don’t plan on waiting around to find out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I keep running until I don’t hear him behind me anymore.  He must have lost me in the foliage, or maybe he just gave up and returned to the fun at the Cornucopia.  I let myself slow and rest against the trunk of a nearby tree, sucking wind and on the verge of blacking out.  My heart is hammering so fast that I can’t even discern a single beat.  I can’t see clearly.  My legs wobble.  I have to grip a low-hanging branch to keep myself steady.  But I did it.  I escaped Cresh, and I escaped an untimely demise at the bloodbath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I just hope with all my might that Cas did, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I need to look for him.  I was so busy running for my life and leading Cresh away from him that I didn’t even think about how I was going to find him again.  I didn’t follow our plan.  I acted on impulse to save the both of us, and now I’m stranded, all alone, in this dense and confusing rainforest with no idea where to go or what to do next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The adrenaline subsides, and it’s replaced with paralyzing dread.  I’m alone.  I’m surrounded by nothing but a maze of identical trees and bushes.  The birds are still singing and chirping songs without a care in the world.  In the distance, I still hear the awful sounds of the bloodbath.  Shrieks, cries, yells of fear and desperation.  If I go back now, I might as well have a death wish.  I need to wait for the initial fight to be done before I dare to venture back to the Cornucopia and follow the tail, but how long could that take?  What if I’m stuck out here for hours with no way to return to Cas?  I promised I’d meet him behind the tail, and I didn’t.  Cresh threw a wrench into my plan.  So what now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I need to get off the ground, first of all.  I’m vulnerable standing out here in the open, despite all the greenery around me.  Anyone could sneak up on me, and that unnerving thought is enough to convince me to try my luck at climbing a nearby tree, one that isn’t too tall and has plenty of sturdy branches for me to sit on and scan my surroundings.  The bark is rough against my skin, but overall, all those years of hauling around heavy sacks of grains have paid off.  I manage to heave myself up onto a high branch after just a few attempts.  I sit maybe five or so yards off the forest floor, out of eyesight of anyone wandering beneath me.  Perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My racing mind is still plagued with anxious thoughts regarding what happened to Cas, so I try to distract myself by going through the knapsack I grabbed.  Inside I find a baby flashlight, a sleeve of crackers, a package of jerky, a container of iodine, an empty water bottle—of course it’s empty—and, most excitingly, a small switchblade.  Obviously not the best weapon, but it’s better than nothing.  At least I have something sharp to defend myself with if the need arises, which I hope it doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing that bare water bottle only reminds me of how thirsty I’ve already become.  It’s insufferably oppressive in this rainforest.  Although I don’t feel that sweaty—I suppose these clothes really do wick away moisture—it doesn’t take away the agony of sitting here in this boiling heat with no water to drink.  No one will last long out here without hydration, but where do you even begin to look for a source of water?  There was that stream by the Cornucopia, but that’s out of the question right now.  The Careers will most certainly camp out there.  If this truly is a rainforest, though, it’s possible that we might be able to get our water from the rain that falls, but I have a funny feeling that the Gamemakers won’t make it that easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minutes drag into hours, and the sounds of fighting still haven’t ceased, nor have any cannons fired.  They always wait until the bloodbath is over to fire the cannons because there are usually so many deaths that it’s difficult to keep track of what’s going on.  Most of the cameras are probably fixed on the fight, but I can’t shake that unsettling feeling of being watched, because I’m sure I am.  I doubt I’ll have much screen time since I’m just sitting in a tree, but in past years, they’ve always panned away from the fight for a brief moment to show everyone else who’s alive and managed to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder where they hide all their cameras.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has to be the middle of the afternoon when I finally hear the cannons go off.  The jarring sound startles me out of my distressed trance, but I make sure to count every single one of them.  By the time the sky goes silent and the last cannon fire echoes in the humid air, I’ve counted nine in total.  Nine tributes already dead.  Nine boys who I saw alive and well just last night at the interviews.  I start to wonder who the Capitol will be picking up and shipping back to their districts soon, but the thought makes me too sick to my stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fighting at the Cornucopia has concluded, and it’s likely that everyone has dispersed from the area.  That’s when they fire the cannons.  It might be safe to go back now, to follow the tail like I promised I would and find Cas before nightfall.  I can’t bear to sit in this tree any longer and fret about what happened to him.  I need to do something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance around me.  It seems clear.  Carefully, I slide off the tree branch and land as softly as I can back on the ground below.  I take out my switchblade, sling the knapsack over my shoulders, and, my senses on high alert, begin to make my way toward the Cornucopia.  This time I’m determined not to trip over any tangled tree roots.  My body still aches from that violent tumble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes me a good half hour to retrace my steps.  I must have been running a lot faster than I thought when I was trying to escape from Cresh.  Thankfully, I don’t see anyone on the way, either.  It’s just me, the birds, and my own nauseating anxiety.  I’m completely winded yet again by the time I reach the tree line that leads out into the glade where the gleaming golden horn is, but I don’t dare step out of the foliage right off the bat.  The clearing may look empty, but I can’t take any chances.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much to my surprise, a lot of supplies are still left in the mouth of the Cornucopia.  Some of the trunks and weapon racks have been picked clean, but overall, there’s quite a pile of goodies left.  I’m almost tempted to go and ransack the leftovers, but I can practically hear Bobby yelling at me through his television screen now.  I know I shouldn’t.  It’s just an enticing sight to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just about to sneak my way across the glade and toward the shrubbery opposite me when I hear the voices approaching.  I stumble back into my cover, heart racing and adrenaline pouring through my blood once more.  There, near the side of the Cornucopia, walk a pair of tributes.  District 2—Lennox and Gadge, I think are their names.  They’re talking and laughing like a couple of carefree friends merrily jaunting through the forest.  Their faces are splattered with crimson spots, and it contrasts with the whiteness of their teeth as they grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t appear to be in a hurry to move on.  They scope out the bounty in the Cornucopia, then stand around and chat.  It takes all the strength I have left in me to suppress a frustrated sigh.  Now what?  If I leave the cover of the foliage now, they’ll see me without a doubt, and I don’t think I can outrun two people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have time for this.  I need to get to Cas before someone else does.  As much as it pains me to do so, I think I’m going to have to take the long way around to avoid the boys from District 2.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twilight is approaching by the time I manage to take my detour around the Cornucopia.  I follow the direction of its tail into the dense trees and shrubbery, sweat collecting in my hair and rolling down my face.  I can taste the saltiness on my dry lips.  I’m so thirsty.  For a rainforest, there sure doesn’t seem to be a lot of rain yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how long I spend in the winding maze of foliage, searching high and low for any sign of my district partner, but every time I come out empty-handed.  I can’t find him anywhere.  I’ve circled around this same area behind the tail of the golden horn for what feels like ages, but nothing.  Absolutely nothing, and as the inky darkness of nighttime begins to seep into the air, overwhelming panic starts to consume me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if I never find him?  What if the two of us are doomed to spend the Games alone?  This was my worst fear, being separated, and now it’s happening, and I don’t know how to stop it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is my fault.  I shouldn’t have abandoned the plan and run in the opposite direction.  I was just trying to save him from Cresh, but look where it got us.  I should have followed the tail like I said I would.  Maybe we could have taken Cresh on together.  At least we wouldn’t be alone anymore.  At least I wouldn’t be frantically running in circles, stomach churning and limbs trembling, deathly terrified of what might have happened to the person I promised I would protect with my life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if he’s—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No.  I can’t allow myself to think like that.  He’s out here somewhere.  He has to be.  I just have to find him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I venture deeper into the forest.  It’s getting dark.  I want to take out my flashlight, but I might as well shoot a flare up into the sky and alert everyone in the vicinity of my exact location.  I carefully step over the knotted tree roots, avoid snapping twigs under my feet.  I don’t hear anyone nearby, but I find myself holding my breath as I walk.  You can never be too cautious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I almost jump out of my boots when I hear the anthem blasting through the air.  Night must have officially fallen.  That means it’s time for the death recap of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Terror bleeds into my body as I look up at the canopy of leaves and see the seal of the Capitol, bright and blue and staring down at me mockingly.  My knees have started to wobble again.  I crouch down near the trunk of a tree, gazing up at the broadcast with so much dread that I can barely think straight.  I don’t realize how hard I’m biting my nails until I taste blood in my mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of the boys from District 3 are out.  Their solemn faces, just like the ones they used to transmit our training scores, flash in the dark canopy above.  One of the boys from 4.  One from 5, 6, and 7.  My vision spins, heart pounds against my ribs.  Don’t show Cas.  Don’t show Cas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Staggering relief floods through me when the recap skips over Districts 8, 9, and 10 entirely.  Both from 11 are dead, and one from 12.  Then the music ends with a grand flourish, and the forest plunges back into eerie darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even care that most of the lethal Careers are still out there.  Cas is alive.  I don’t know where, but somewhere, and I’m more determined than ever to find him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With newfound strength coursing through me, I stumble to my feet and keep combing the shadowed forest.  How many complete teams are there, then?  Districts 1 and 2 still have both of their tributes.  No surprise there.  But as for pairs, I think only 8, 9, and 10 are left.  Despite that fear of never finding Cas gnawing on my stomach, I can’t ignore the burst of hope swelling in my chest.  If—</span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span>—I find him, our chances will only continue to grow if we’re one of the few pairs left in the playing field.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe we can actually do this.  Maybe we can win and go home after all.  A smile begins to tug at my lips as I climb over a tall mass of tree roots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when I hear the scream.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’ve never run faster.  Not even when Cresh was chasing me.  I bolt through the dark forest like a stampeding animal.  Adrenaline and terror guide me through the dense shrubbery, over logs and roots, in the direction that the horrific scream originated from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know full well I may be sprinting straight into a trap.  Surely the Careers are the ones who elicited that scream out of someone.  It might not even be Cas at all, but I can’t risk it, just on the off-chance that it is him.  The thought of it alone is enough to make me sick to my stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart plummets to my feet when I hear the cannon fire.  The birds and insects stop chirping as the chilling sound echoes through the forest.  I keep running, barreling through the bushes, and I don’t stop until the sound of laughter hits my ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I skid to a halt.  Whoever it is is close.  I scramble to hide behind a wide tree trunk, my mind racing with uncontrollable thoughts.  I can hear twigs snapping.  It sounds like there are two people, but thankfully, they seem to be walking away from my abysmal hiding spot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can barely feel anything other than the rapid pounding of my own heart.  Slowly, and carefully, I peek my head around the tree trunk.  My insides churn when I see the lacerated body of a boy with blond hair.  So it wasn’t Cas.  Thank God.  It looks like it might be the other boy from District 6, but it’s impossible to tell for sure.  It’s dark.  He’s far away, and covered in his own torn flesh and blood.  I don’t even have to wonder who did this to him because I hear that voice resonating through the night air, accompanied by an amused laugh that makes my hair stand on end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s another district down,”  Cresh tells his partner.  “He didn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>to fight back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re still walking in the opposite direction of me, but I find myself holding my breath until my lungs feel like they’re on fire.  Of course Cresh and his district partner are out hunting people in the middle of the night.  It’s the perfect time to sneak up on unsuspecting tributes and kill them before they even know what hit them.  Awful.  Absolutely awful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we’ll find those two from Nine?”  the other Career asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to bite down on my tongue to stifle a sharp inhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope so,”  I hear Cresh chuckle.  “That Winchester boy got away from me, but I bet you he was trying to steer me away from his boyfriend.  That means he’s probably around here somewhere.  Man, I can’t wait to find them.  It’s gonna be so fun to watch them bleed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His echoing words are like a punch to the gut.  It knocks all the air right out of me.  They’re looking for us.  They’re actively looking for us, and if they manage to find Cas before I do…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their voices are gone, out of earshot.  I clamber to my feet and hasten through the shrubs, away from the fallen tribute and deeper into the darkening forest.  Time is running out.  I need to move quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve been searching for hours.  Pain shoots through my aching body with every step I take, and still, I feel like I’ve made zero progress.  The forest looks almost identical everywhere I go.  It’s like I’m walking in circles.  Is that the same rock I passed thirty minutes ago?  Who knows.  It might be.  There are hardly any landmarks to give me a sense of direction, any idea as to where I am, and it doesn’t help that it’s still the dead of night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m beginning to think this is futile.  The Gamemakers are probably messing with the landscape, making everything look like carbon copies of each other so I lose track of where I am and where I’m headed.  They’re probably sitting in their control room laughing at me right now as I blindly stumble around, desperately searching for any sign of my district partner.  They’re probably enjoying my misery.  They might even be snacking on junk food or drinking copious amounts of beverages as I trudge through the forest, stomach growling and tongue as dry and cracked as a desert.  Oh, to be a Gamemaker and not have to worry about the effects of starvation or dehydration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I despise them almost as much as I despise Cresh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long for the panic to settle in.  My mind is burned out.  My body is drained and exhausted.  I’ve been on the move almost all day and night, and I haven’t slept, haven’t eaten, haven’t taken a drink.  Normal thoughts turn into catastrophic enemies.  I’m being attacked by my own mind, tormented with images of calamities that don’t quite make sense but still overwhelm me with paralyzing terror, so much so that I have to sit down before my legs give out and send me collapsing to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How am I ever going to find Cas?  I can barely walk anymore.  Agonizing soreness seeps into my tired muscles the instant I sit back against a tree.  I’m lightheaded, no doubt due to the stress and lack of food and water, but I don’t dare break into the limited amount of food in my knapsack.  It’ll be gone by morning if I open it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what do I do?  At this rate I’ll die of dehydration before I reach Cas.  It’s still unbearably muggy.  Not even nighttime has cooled the stifling air.  My throat is so parched that it’s difficult to swallow.  I’m not even sweating that much anymore, but I know that’s not a good sign.  That means my body is running out of water, and fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m losing control.  I’m losing my grip on reality.  Fear clutches my thumping heart with icy fingers.  It’s hard to breathe.  The air is so steamy.  I’m exhausted, overwrought, completely terrified of where I am and what I’ve gotten myself into that I can’t even think properly anymore.  My thoughts are a frenzied mess.  I can’t wrangle them in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if I never find Cas?  What if I drop dead of dehydration before I reach him?  What if Cresh and his partner find him before I do?  What will they do to him?  Nothing good, I know.  Or what if they find me first, borderline unconscious against a tree, sluggish with fatigue and unable to fight back?  I’m a sitting duck out here, but I don’t have the energy to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if something happens to Cas because I ran in the opposite direction and left him alone in this dangerous rainforest?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is all my fault.  I shouldn’t have run.  I should have met up with him like we planned, like I promised.  None of this would be happening if I had just followed the plan.  I thought I was helping him by leading Cresh astray.  I was trying to save him, but now he’s alone, and I have no idea where to find him.  I didn’t think.  I acted on a whim, and in the end, it did far more harm than good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m sure I would cry if I had the water in my body to do so, but instead, I’m left with a throbbing pain in my chest that refuses to go away.  It’s like my heart is shattering to pieces, slowly and excruciatingly.  It squeezes all the oxygen out of my lungs.  It’s worse than any pain I’ve ever experienced, and the cause is nothing concrete or tangible.  That’s what makes it so intolerable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never realized loneliness could hurt this much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know if I can do this.  I don’t know if I can keep going.  The dire effects of no sleep or food or water is taking its toll on me, not to mention the terror that’s still pumping through my veins.  I want to find my district partner more than anything.  Believe me, I do, but the mere thought of getting back on my aching feet makes the migraine hammering inside my skull more torturous than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t do this.  I just want him here with me.  I can’t stand being by myself in this nightmare world.  I can’t stand the thought of him being alone out there, afraid and vulnerable to attack, but I can’t move.  My body is already trying to shut itself down, and that only makes the torment worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is all my fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I choke on a tearless sob.  It rattles in my constricted throat, heaves my shoulders, and a faint jingle rings in my ears.  At first I panic, thinking someone is nearby, but then I remember the silver locket hanging from my neck.  Crowley’s words come flooding back to me in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>If you ever feel like giving up, just open it.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I unclip the necklace with trembling fingers, hold the small rectangular locket in the palm of my hand.  If there was ever an opportune moment to open it, I think this is it.  I press the clasp on the side of the locket, and one glance at the contents of its interior is enough to make another strangled cry slip past my lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re two picture frames.  On the left are four small photos arranged in a collage.  One of my mom, one of my dad, one of Charlie, and one of Sam.  Separate pictures, but they all have such faint smiles on their faces.  It’s been so long since I’ve seen them.  Just looking at those photos makes my chest pang with homesickness.  I miss them so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley must have gotten the pictures from some Capitol database.  Everyone in Panem is entered in at a certain point.  But the fact that my stylist, whose only responsibility was to dress me up nicely and escort me to my Launch Room, took the time to find photos of my family and best friend and put them into a locket for me to have in the arena warms my aching heart.  He didn’t have to go through so much effort for me, but he did, all because he took a liking to me and wants me to win.  I wish I had the ability to give him my thanks.  Even if I don’t make it out of here, at least I have the chance to see their faces one last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The picture frame on the right, however, shoves that notion out of my head immediately.  Taking up the whole frame is a photo of Cas.  Faint smile, bright blue eyes, tousled jet black hair.  I feel like it’s been years since I’ve seen him.  That’s far too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now I’m beginning to understand why Crowley told me to wait until I felt like giving up to open this locket.  Seeing the faces of the people I care most about sends a wave of determination through my blood, through my exhausted body.  I can’t stop here.  Not on the very first night.  That’s giving up too easily, and I am not a quitter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to keep going.  I promised Sam and Charlie I would try to win and come home.  I can’t let them down.  I promised little Gabriel Novak that I would keep his older brother safe.  I can’t let him down, either.  I promised Cas I wouldn’t let anything happen to him, and I promised myself that I would do everything in my power to get the two of us home alive.  I can’t let any of them down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to keep going.  For them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of my muscles scream in agony as I push myself to my unsteady feet.  My knees threaten to give out, but I stand strong.  I close the locket, hold it in my fist as if it’s actually giving me energy, and clip the necklace back around my neck.  I think of the five faces inside, the people who are counting on me, who believe in me like no one else, and force my weak legs to move forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not throwing in the towel that quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I plod through the forest, fatigue still weighing me down, I start to hear thunder rumbling in the distance.  The ground shakes.  I can almost feel the vibrations in the air.  It doesn’t sound like it’s anywhere in the immediate vicinity, so the blissful sensation of rain is probably out of the question, but maybe I’ll walk into it soon.  Here’s hoping the rain is drinkable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder with dread if rain will be the only water source in this arena that isn’t by a death trap like the Cornucopia.  I haven’t seen a single river or stream anywhere during my travels.  Surely there must be some kind of pond at least, right?  There are still birds chirping and singing way out here.  They have to drink, too, and I doubt they fly all the way back to that glade to do it.  I’ll just have to keep looking.  I refuse to return to that stream by the Cornucopia to get water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dawn steadily approaches.  Feeble rays of sunlight begin to pierce through the canopy of leaves above my head.  I can already feel the temperature rising to its daytime humidity and unbearable heat.  The thunder has long since vanished, and I didn’t see or hear any rain at all.  Maybe if I’m lucky, Cas managed to find some water.  I’ve never been so parched in my life, and it’s only going to get worse from here on out if I don’t drink something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would it have killed the Gamemakers to fill my water bottle with just a pinch of liquid?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Midmorning hits.  I’m on the verge of collapse again.  My vision spins in circles.  I can’t remember the last time I was able to take a full breath.  Everything hurts and aches and I just want to sit down, even though I know I need to keep going.  I have to be close.  I have to be.  I’ve been searching for hours on end, and I don’t know how I haven’t come across a single clue as to where—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I almost fall over.  I whirl around so fast that it takes my vision a few beats to catch up with me.  I’m so drained that I honestly can’t tell if I’m hallucinating or not.  Was that—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Movement catches my eye, up in the tree I passed a moment ago.  I stop breathing.  The world around me seems to skid to an abrupt halt.  I dare to put my switchblade away.  The leaves rustle, and every bit of exhaustion instantly leaves my body when Cas drops to the ground in front of me, alive and well and face alight with shocked relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean!”  he exclaims, and he starts running.  He nearly takes me down when he leaps into my arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see someone.  The amount of solace that surges through me is so overwhelming that it almost hurts.  I hold him so tightly, so close, and cradle his head against my shoulder because I’m terrified of letting him out of my sight.  I was fortunate to have found him when I did, and now I never want to let him go ever again.  I already made that mistake once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His toes barely touch the ground as he clings to me, shaking and shivering like a madman.  I can’t tell if he’s crying or laughing, or both.  All I know is that I’m beyond grateful he’s alive, pressed against me, wrapped in my trembling arms, and I’m grateful for the locket dangling from its silver chain.  I might not have kept going and found him without it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As hours of built-up stress and pure apprehension slowly begin to wash away, I can’t stop a feeble laugh from escaping my mouth.  “Man, it’s so good to see you,”  I say.  “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel Cas nod into my neck.  “Yeah,”  he breathes.  He clutches the fabric of my shirt, lets go of a shuddering sigh.  It fans the skin on my neck and makes my body prickle with goosebumps.  “Are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never been better,”  I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas steps back then, but he keeps a firm grip on my arms.  He worriedly scans my face and my shoulders and my chest as if he’s searching for any injuries, even though I told him I was fine.  I’m sure I don’t look fantastic after wandering the forest for hours upon hours, but despite my thirst and fatigue, I couldn’t be more contended.  On the other hand, he looks good, considering the circumstances.  Just sweaty and suffering from the aftereffects of distress, I assume.  This past day hasn’t been easy on anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was so scared you were dead,”  he murmurs.  The fearful glint in his wide eyes makes my heart pang.  “But I didn’t see you on the recap, so I knew you must’ve been okay, but I didn’t know where you were and I was tempted to go find you but then I started hearing noises and I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words catch in his throat.  His grip on my arms falters.  He draws an unsteady breath to compose himself, but I pull him back into an embrace before he can speak.  He doesn’t have to explain himself.  I’m the one who got us into this mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.  I’m okay,”  I tell him.  “I’m here now.  Everything’s gonna be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas is still shivering.  “I thought you were dead,”  he whimpers.  “Please don’t ever do that to me again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t,”  I reassure.  “I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I refuse to let anything or anyone hold me back from keeping that promise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We stay locked in that comforting embrace for a few moments longer, relishing the security of one another’s presence, before we break apart.  Cas is slowly beginning to calm back down, enough so that he manages to flash me a frail but warm smile as he gestures up at the tree he hopped down from.  Apparently he’d been hiding out there all night and day, and I just happened to walk by that specific one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now that the initial relief and euphoria of finding my district partner alive and well is starting to fade, the crippling soreness creeps back into my limbs.  I need to sit and rest, for real this time.  Cas climbs up into his little tree and beckons me over.  He helps me up next, and the two of us sit perched on a branch so wide that it might as well be a table.  It’s wonderful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although, I’m not sure if anything is as wonderful as being in his company after everything that’s happened.  I was terrified he was dead.  He was terrified I was dead.  I almost gave up and abandoned my search, but I’m so glad I didn’t.  Both Cresh and the Gamemakers tried their hardest to tear us apart, but they didn’t try hard enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy from the fields and I are reunited at last.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So Cresh was chasing you?”  Cas asks.  He sits across from me, brows furrowed in concern and knees hugged into his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod.  Shivers still run down my spine when I think about that malicious glint in his eyes when he spotted me at the Cornucopia.  “Yeah.  I was looking for you after the gong sounded, but he saw me and just started coming after me.  I didn’t want to lead him directly to you, either, so that’s why I ran the other way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Cas falls silent.  He almost looks perplexed.  “You risked your life to keep him away from me?”  he murmurs, barely audible over the birds and the soft breeze rustling the leaves around us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After what he said to us in training, I didn’t want to chance it,”  I tell him.  The worry glimmering in his gaze seems to pierce right through me.  “I’m so sorry I left you alone.  I acted before I thought.  I didn’t realize how long it would take for me to find you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A faint smile lights up Cas’ face.  “You don’t have to apologize,”  he says.  “I’m just really glad you’re here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Words can’t describe how much I’ve missed him.  “Me too,”  I say with a smile of my own.  Just being in his presence has already soothed most of my rattled nerves from the events of the last day.  “So what did you get up to while I was scouring the whole forest?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing of interest.”  He gently rocks back and forth, keeping the tips of his boots on the trunk for stability.  “My platform was right behind the tail, so as soon as that gong sounded, I took off and didn’t look back.  There was a District Two boy right next to me.  I didn’t feel like going toe-to-toe with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Understandable,”  I laugh.  So he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>by the tail.  That’s why I didn’t see him when I was frantically scanning the battlefield.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I kept running until I couldn’t hear the screams anymore,”  Cas goes on.  He draws a deep breath.  “I thought about staying on the ground in case you were behind me somewhere, but a few minutes passed, and I still didn’t see you.  I got nervous about someone else finding me, so I just picked a random tree and started climbing as best as I could.  I sat there keeping an eye out for you for a long time.  Then the cannons went off, and then the death recap, and then this.  No fun escapades for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hearing how he camped out in this exact tree for hours upon hours, waiting for me and hoping I was alive, only worsens the guilt gnawing at my stomach.  I can’t even imagine how afraid he must’ve been out here by himself.  I try to let it go, though.  Everything is okay now.  I found him.  We’re both still kicking.  It all worked out in the end, even though the road there was uncomfortably bumpy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you?”  Cas’ quiet voice rips me out of my thoughts.  “How were the exciting adventures of Dean Winchester?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I scoff.  “More like nightmarish adventures.  I was worried I was never going to find you.  It’s like a maze out there, and the darkness and dehydration didn’t help in the slightest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas presses his lips together.  “You didn’t find any water, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a drop.”  I shrug my knapsack off and unzip it to show him the contents.  “There’s a bottle in here, but of course it’s empty.  At least there are some other good things.”  I fish out the crackers, the jerky, the small flashlight, the container of iodine, and finally, the switchblade.  He seems impressed by the haul I managed to snag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to have to look for water soon,”  I say, as much as it concerns me to do so.  “We won’t last long in this heat without it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods, but I can tell the very idea of leaving the safety of this tree makes him anxious.  He’s been up here for almost twenty-four hours.  He hasn’t seen the rest of the rainforest yet, and I feel like I hardly scratched the surface during my travels.  There’s a lot of unexplored territory, and unexplored territory can be dangerous.  I’m just as uneasy about leaving as he is, but our dehydration is only going to get worse as time goes on.  We need water.  We’ll just have to be cautious when we venture out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I weigh the sleeve of crackers in my hand.  My stomach pangs, growls like a wild animal.  It might still be too early to break into our limited supply of food, but I want to make sure Cas has his strength.  He didn’t eat as much as I did during the days leading up to the Games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hold the sleeve out to him.  “Are you hungry?  You should probably have a cracker or two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates, glancing between the sleeve and me.  “Did you eat?”  he asks, ignoring my question altogether.  “You did a lot of walking and running.  You should have it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,”  I tell him.  I open the sleeve of crackers and take one out.  “Here.  An apology gift for leaving you alone out here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another faint smile adorns Cas’ face as he takes the cracker, but before he eats it, he looks up and meets my eyes.  “Can you humor me and at least have one, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t say no to him.  Not after all the stress I put him through by abandoning the plan.  I take out a second cracker and eat with him, even though our ration only lasts a few fleeting seconds.  Still, it’s enough to appease the sharp pain in my stomach.  I haven’t eaten since our small breakfast on the hovercraft.  That little cracker did wonders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Exhaustion hits me like a brick wall.  My eyelids start to flutter, but I force them back open, despite the sluggishness taking hold of my entire aching body.  I need to sleep, but the mere thought of closing my eyes in this nightmare world is enough to spark my adrenaline.  Maybe Cas should rest first, and I’ll stay awake to keep watch.  Maybe then I’ll be relaxed enough to try to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just opening my mouth to suggest this when he cuts me off.  “You look fried,”  he says softly.  “You should sleep.  I can stay awake for a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His offer is tempting.  It’s very tempting.  I can feel my brain trying its hardest to pull me into slumber, but I’m too afraid to slip into that state of vulnerability.  “Are you sure?  I’ll be okay if you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That wasn’t a question.”  Cas’ tone is firm, but there’s care and solicitude shining in his gaze.  “You burned a lot of energy trying to find me.  You need to rest.  I’ll be fine for a while.  I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to argue with him.  He seems set on his plan.  If he wants to keep watch while I sleep, then I trust him.  I’ll just make sure to have him wake me in a few hours.  He needs the rest, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I lean back against the tree trunk, already drifting off into much-needed slumber, another overwhelming wave of gratitude washes over me.  We may be trapped in an arena where people hunt each other and fight to the death, but at least we’re together.  I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have a partner I could rely on.  Probably never sleep and be in a constant state of paranoia.  But with Cas right here, safe and alive and keeping an eye out while I rest, I’m as content as I can possibly be in the situation we’re in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I make sure to tell him that.  “Cas?”  I say, fighting to open my eyes so I can see him for a moment longer.  When he perks up, I can’t help but smile.  “I’m really happy you’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My vision starts to blur, eyes going hazy with exhaustion, but I just barely see him return my smile in an instant.  “I’m happy you’re okay, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I slip under, off into a deep, dreamless sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The booming of a cannon startles me awake.  I bolt upright, heart racing, frantically looking around to make sense of where I am and what’s going on.  My first instinct is to see if Cas is still here—he is—and the rest slowly follows.  I’m still up in our tree.  We’re still in the muggy rainforest.  We’re still exhausted and dehydrated and hungry, but we’re both still here.  I wonder who that cannon was for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The adrenaline subsides, and I realize it’s dusk.  I was out for a lot longer than I wanted to be.  Why didn’t Cas wake me up?  He looks like he could pass out at any second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?”  he asks before I have a chance to gather my thoughts.  He’s still sitting with his knees hugged into his chest and his chin rested on top of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fair amount of the crippling fatigue has faded, but my mouth and throat are drier than ever.  My mind is foggy.  Every part of my body is stiff and sore and aches every time I move, but hey, at least I’m not on the verge of passing out again.  I suppose I have that going for me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not fantastic,”  I tell him, “but better than earlier.  How come you let me sleep for so long?  I thought we were going to take turns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas lifts his shoulders in a feeble shrug.  His eyelids are starting to droop.  “You needed it more,”  he says.  “Nothing happened while you were out.  That cannon was the first noise I heard other than the birds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another tribute down.  How many is that?  There were nine after the bloodbath, nine during the first recap last night.  Then that poor boy who met an unfortunate end at the hands of Cresh and his district partner, and now this one, wherever and whoever he is.  Eleven.  Eleven tributes are gone.  Thirteen remain, including Cas and me.  I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I can’t help it.  We’re almost halfway there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think happened to him?”  I wonder aloud.  Anything is possible in a place like this.  The Careers, a wild animal, dehydration, poisonous food.  Anything, and just thinking about the never-ending list of hazards makes my hair stand on end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas shrugs again.  His tired gaze is staring a thousand miles out.  He needs to sleep.  I don’t think he’s slept since the night before the Games, when he stayed with me in my room, curled up next to me, his head rested on my shoulder.  I suddenly find myself longing for the comfort and simplicity of that night, when all we cared about was making sure the other was at ease.  Now we have about a hundred different things to worry about at all times, and finding true serenity is next to impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should sleep,”  I say.  “I can keep an eye out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep, unsteady breath, Cas nods.  “I’ll wait until after the recap.  It’ll probably come on soon, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t blame him.  The colors of dusk are deepening.  Nighttime is approaching.  The anthem that plays before the recap is loud and jarring and would undoubtedly wake him up, so the two of us sit in silence—it’s difficult to think of things to discuss—and wait for darkness to envelop the rainforest around us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When night falls, the canopy above lights up with the blue hue of the Capitol’s seal.  The music echoes through the trees.  Today, the projection shows the photos of the boy from District 5 and the boy from District 6.  Two more districts are out of the Games.  I should be relieved since our chances of victory are only continuing to increase, but it’s tough when I think about how terrible this must be for those tributes’ friends and families.  It’s the second day, and they’re already gone, just like that.  It’s upsetting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know there can only be two winners, though, sometimes one if things go awry.  I can’t be distraught over these other tributes if I want to get Cas and me home safely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence swallows up the rainforest when the Capitol seal vanishes.  I crawl my way further out onto the tree branch so Cas can take my spot by the trunk and lean back against it.  As he settles in and tries to get comfortable, I take out my switchblade, just to be on the safe side.  It’s nighttime now.  There might be people sneaking around, and I want to be prepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas falls asleep quickly.  It’s just me and the birds, me and my own mess of thoughts.  Faint rays of moonlight peer through the canopy, glinting off the silver locket dangling from Cas’ neck, the one that’s almost identical to mine.  I can’t help but wonder what’s inside his.  Probably pictures of his family, his little brother Gabriel who’s most likely watching us right now, as thankful that I found Cas as I am.  But is there a photo of me, just like there’s one of him in my locket?  It’s probable, especially if Crowley and Meg worked together to make us these.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder if he opened his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I absentmindedly twirl the tip of the switchblade on the branch.  Eleven tributes are down.  Three districts are out of the Games entirely.  We’re making progress, little by little, but I know the people of the Capitol only get thirstier for blood the longer the Games go on.  It’s just going to get more and more challenging from here on out.  We’re going to need every last bit of our strength if we’re going to survive this nightmare, and despite everything, I want to believe we have a chance.  I want to believe we can make it out of here and go home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night drags on.  Cas doesn’t budge.  I don’t hear anything in the distance, anything that could allude to nearby danger.  We’re fairly deep into the rainforest.  Maybe a lot of the tributes didn’t journey out this far.  That would be nice.  Gives us a bit of breathing room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long while, I find myself spacing off, simply gazing at Cas’ reposeful face.  I don’t know how he still looks so good after all of this.  I’m sure I look like a walking corpse, but he’s far from it.  Other than the dark bags beneath his eyes, his skin is somehow immaculate, his hair only slightly damp with sweat.  His brows are still perfectly manicured from the work of his prep team.  Even his lips don’t appear nearly as dry as mine feel.  But most importantly, he looks at peace.  He’s getting the rest he needs.  I’ll let him sleep for a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When dawn finally creeps into view, Cas stirs, then struggles to open his eyes.  He glances around, up at the canopy, the tranquil hues of sunrise that are just barely visible through the leaves.  When his attention lands on me, a small smile stretches across my face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning,”  I say.  It’s day three here in the arena.  “How’d you sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas stretches.  “Okay,”  he replies with a heavy sigh.  “I see you let me sleep all night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teasing tone in his voice makes me chuckle.  I complained about him letting me sleep all day, then turned around and let him sleep through the night.  Oh well.  We couldn’t do anything when it was dark, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the sweltering sun rises up into the sky, we begin to formulate a rough plan for finding water.  I’m starting to feel the effects of severe dehydration, and I’m sure Cas is getting there, too.  There has to be a little stream or something of the like around here.  We’ll just have to search for it, and carefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look around to make sure we’re in the clear before hopping down from the tree that provided us so much security.  Hopefully a water source isn’t terribly far away.  I’d like to return to this tree if at all possible.  Cas found a good one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He joins me on the ground.  I sling my knapsack over my shoulders, keep a tight grip on my switchblade, and take a deep breath in a feeble attempt to calm my nerves.  We’re venturing into the unknown today.  Anything could happen, but I try not to think too much about that.  Finding water is the only thing that’s crucial now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay close,”  I say.  Cas nods, draws an anxious breath of his own, and we head out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the hottest day thus far.  Even some of the birds seem to have retreated into hiding, desperate to get away from the suffocating heat and humidity.  It takes all of my energy to lift my feet off the ground; eventually I resort to fatigued shuffling.  I can hardly breathe.  My heart is pounding so fast that I can’t keep track of it anymore.  I don’t know how much farther I’ll be able to walk at this rate.  It’s been days since I’ve had water, and it’s taking its grievous toll on me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not even aware that I’ve started to black out until I feel my hands and knees slam into the earth.  So at least I somehow managed to catch myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I barely hear Cas calling my name over the shrill ringing in my ears.  I don’t feel like I’m in my own body anymore.  The ground spins and swirls beneath me.  Looking at it makes me want to throw up.  But what?  There’s nothing left in me.  No water.  No food other than a measly cracker.  My stomach churns, and my throat is so dry that I can’t even swallow to settle it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>End of the line, and I’m too dizzy and confused and lightheaded to even process it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone is grabbing my shoulder.  I think it’s Cas, but I can’t see anything.  My vision is a nauseating fusion of distorted shapes and colors.  I think he’s saying something, too.  I don’t know.  All I can hear is that deafening ringing, the rapid drumming of my own heart.  My skull feels like it’s cracking open.  I just want to lie down, curl up into a ball, wait for this torment to go away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, that someone is definitely Cas.  He’s kneeled down in front of me now.  I can discern the colors of his outfit, the concerned look on his face.  Is that his voice I hear, too?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I squeeze my eyes shut, then blink them open as hard as I can.  Slowly, and painfully, my swirling vision returns to normal.  The ringing in my ears diminishes.  I still have a pounding headache, but the fogginess in my mind starts to fade.  Not completely, just enough for me to figure out what’s going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can hear Cas’ voice again.  It’s trembling.  He sounds terrified.  “Dean?”  He tightens his grip on my arm.  “Are you okay?  Can you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes me forever to form a coherent sentence from the jumbled mess in my mind.  It’s like I’ve lost the ability to speak entirely.  Why is this so difficult?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I blink, dare to shake my head, struggle to look up to meet his worried eyes.  When I finally manage to string together words that I think make sense, I can’t suppress a weak chuckle, even though it sends waves of pain shooting through every part of my aching body.  “Loud and clear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas doesn’t seem amused.  He looks more petrified than before.  “I didn’t know it was this bad,”  he mumbles to himself.  At least, I think that’s what he said.  “Do you know if you can still stand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he’s talking to me again.  I’m not sure if I’m capable of producing another intelligible sentence.  That last one really took a lot out of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I must take too long to answer.  I see Cas’ bottom lip start to quiver.  His eyes glisten.  Why is he crying?  Did I miss something?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confusion overwhelms me when he sucks in a sharp breath and slides the knapsack off my shoulders.  He takes the switchblade out of my hand.  “Where…?”  my strangled voice asks.  What is he doing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to find you water,”  he says matter-of-factly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my lethargic mind, I know that doesn’t sound right.  I frown, shake my throbbing head.  “No,”  I groan.  Panic consumes me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t walk, Dean, and you’re at death’s door.”  Cas’ voice is still trembling, but his words are determined.  “I can’t sit around and wait for that to happen.  I can’t.  I’ll be back soon.  Just stay put, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  My legs are like jelly.  My vision has started to spin again.  But I can’t let him go alone.  That’s not right.  That makes me nervous.  I push myself upright, feel the ground slip out from underneath me, but I think he catches me.  I’m not letting him go alone.  We were already separated once.  That much I remember.  I can’t let it happen a second time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult to stand on my own.  The trees are whirling in circles.  I hold onto Cas’ arm until he takes mine and slings it around his shoulders.  I like this.  Much more secure.  I’m not sure if I’m hearing things, either, but I think he breathes out a feeble laugh as he carefully guides me forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re probably the most stubborn person I’ve ever met,”  he says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a battle to keep me on my feet, let alone help me shuffle through the forest.  I’m just weighing Cas down.  All of my weight is dumped onto him, but he holds strong.  He grits his teeth and keeps pulling me onward.  I would commend him if I could figure out how to talk again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’ve been hobbling along for what must be ten agonizing minutes, and he’s sucking wind.  His face is twisted into a grimace.  I can feel his grip on me weakening.  My knees give out completely.  I hear a whimper escape his mouth as I slip out from his grasp and collapse to the ground.  This time I don’t think I’ll be able to get back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean, come on.”  His frightened voice sounds so distant, even though I see him right next to me.  “Come on, please.  Get up!  Please, get up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s shaking my shoulder.  His eyes are still glistening.  I can’t move anymore.  This is it.  This is where I die.  After everything I went through to find Cas, I’m just going to dry up and die right here.  A fish out of water.  I can’t believe this.  I would be terrified, but I can’t even remember where I am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least the ground is nice and cool beneath my touch.  The sensation is relaxing.  It almost feels damp.  Kind of like wet soil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wet soil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My last remaining traces of energy instantly snap me back to reality.  The earth is marshy up ahead.  There has to be water over there.  There has to be.  I start to crawl.  Every movement hurts.  I can hear Cas’ scared, perplexed voice behind me.  I try with all my might to raise my heavy arm and point ahead, at the line of shrubbery that has to be concealing that life-saving water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas must figure out what I mean.  His hands are on my sides.  He’s helping me drag my broken body toward the shrubbery.  I groan in pain with every move I make.  I start to think I’m not even going to make it to the bushes before I keel over and die.  Black spots are dancing in the corners of my vision.  But I keep going.  We have to be close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We push past the line of shrubbery; a bizarre mix between a sigh of relief and a scream of euphoria rattles in my parched throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a whole pond right at my trembling fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I almost dunk my entire face into the cloudy water and guzzle every last drop.  I’m that desperate, but Cas holds me back.  He says something about it not being clean, how we need to purify it first.  I watch as he unzips the knapsack and takes out the water bottle and the container of iodine.  He fills the bottle to the brim, tips a few droplets of iodine into it, and waits.  I don’t know how long, but every second is unbearable torture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he hands me the bottle.  He tells me to drink it slowly so it doesn’t come back up.  I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited about anything in my life.  It takes so much restraint to not down the whole bottle in one gulp, but I control myself.  I bring the bottle to my cracked lips, and I drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like I’ve swallowed a magic elixir.  Vitality and energy and relief flood my near-lifeless body in an instant.  I take one sip, then two, then three, then four before I force myself to put it down for a moment.  The cool liquid dampens my dry mouth, slides down my hot, parched throat.  It’s bliss.  It’s pure bliss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a few more sizable sips before I give the bottle to Cas.  Already, I’m starting to feel ten times better.  My head still throbs and my muscles still ache, but the confusion and dizziness are both dwindling.  My vision clears.  I can’t suppress an alleviated grin as Cas drinks that glorious water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We take turns draining the bottle of its contents until it’s all gone.  Cas refills it, drops more iodine into it, and we repeat the cycle.  While we wait for the water to purify, we rinse our faces, take handfuls of the pond water and run it through our tousled, sweaty hair.  Then we gulp down the bottle, refill it, and wait once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t believe how lucky we got.  I was inches away from death, surely.  Cas wouldn’t have been able to carry me any farther.  I would’ve been stuck there, collapsed on the ground and incapable of moving, but just in the nick of time, we somehow found water.  I don’t know how, but I’m not complaining.  I’d probably be dead right now if we hadn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a hefty amount of water sloshing around in our stomachs, we sit by the pond and let the wonderful effects kick in.  Slowly, my headache begins to fade.  My body still hurts—I don’t think anything can fix that at this rate—but I feel like a different person.  Newfound energy surges through my veins.  I feel like I’m ready to tackle any challenges the arena throws at us.  It’s heavenly.  Amazing what a bit of water can do for you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve been so lost in relishing how rejuvenated I feel that I don’t notice Cas staring at me until I glance at him.  He starts when we lock eyes, but he only drops his gaze to the ground for a fleeting second before looking back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”  I ask with a smile.  It doesn’t hurt to talk anymore!  And I can actually remember how to do it!  This is incredible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A faint smile of his own tugs at Cas’ lips.  He lifts his shoulders in a shrug.  “Nothing,”  he murmurs.  “I was just getting really scared back there.  I thought you were...”  He falters, his face falling, but he quickly composes himself.  “Feeling better now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Much,”  I say.  I don’t comment on the sentence he didn’t finish.  “I’m like a new person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ smile widens into a relieved grin.  He takes another couple of sips before handing the bottle back to me.  I’m just gulping my share and filling it up one last time when the thunder starts rumbling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind picks up.  It’s crisp and carries the unmistakable scent of rain.  Another crack of thunder booms through the air, vibrating the ground and shaking the leaves.  It sounds much closer than the last time I heard it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it decides to rain now,”  I say with a scoff.  Just our luck.  I almost died from dehydration, and now that we found this pond and I’m beginning to feel better, a storm rolls in.  I bet the Gamemakers are getting a real kick out of this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas looks up at the canopy as the cool wind whips through the forest.  He holds out the palm of his hand, waiting to catch a raindrop I presume.  I’m just closing my eyes, anticipating the refreshing feeling of rain on my skin, when I hear him let out a yelp of pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I jump up, hurry to his side in an instant.  He’s gripping his wrist, staring down at the palm he was holding up to the sky.  There, bubbling on his skin, is a raindrop, but it’s not like any raindrop I’ve ever seen.  It sizzles and boils on his hand, leaves an angry red mark as it dissolves.  He turns to look at me, bright blue eyes wide with terror, and I can only imagine I mirror his expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark storm clouds are billowing toward us.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Acidic rain.  It’s the only thing I can think of.  Why else would it sizzle on Cas’ skin like that?  And if that one little drop left that much of an inflamed mark…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thunder rattles my bones.  It’s getting darker and windier by the second.  The clouds overhead are rolling closer and closer.  That acid rain is going to start falling, and we’re out in the middle of nowhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move.”  I’m surprised at how calm my voice is.  Pure terror takes control of me as I scramble to my feet.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Move!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I help Cas up as he throws the knapsack over his shoulders, and we bolt through the foliage.  I don’t even think.  Just run.  Hop over the tree roots, broken twigs, uneven terrain.  I can hear Cas’ frantic, labored breaths and his pounding footsteps close behind me, and the rumbling thunder even closer.  It’s like it’s taunting us, laughing at us as we desperately try to outrun the rain that’s bound to start pouring down any second.  How are we going to find cover in time?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A raindrop hits the back of my neck.  Searing pain shoots down my spine as it eats away at my skin, but I keep running, searching for something—</span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>—that could spare us from this harmful acidity.  I’m horrified to realize there’s nothing in sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I skid to an abrupt stop when I see a wall of rain flanking us from the left.  Cas collides into my back, not having noticed the approaching danger, and almost sends me stumbling forward.  I catch myself just in time and grab his arm, pulling him away from the advancing acid rain and deeper into the darkening forest to our right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another droplet lands on my hand.  It stings and burns so painfully that it knocks all the air out of my lungs.  Still, I keep sprinting, tugging Cas along behind me.  How exhausted I was by the pond doesn’t matter.  How much my body aches doesn’t matter.  Adrenaline has replaced the blood surging through my veins.  All I can think about now is finding shelter before we’re eaten alive by acidic rain.  That’s not the way I want to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I start to panic when I hear the rain falling behind us, slamming against the leaves of the foliage.  It’s getting closer.  We might not be able to outrun it.  The thunder booms.  The wind roars.  The lethal storm is creeping up on us, and I’m so blinded by overwhelming fear that I almost miss it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small rock overhang, with just enough space beneath it for us to hide under.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I practically dive to my stomach and crawl under the rock, then spin around to help Cas into the hollow.  It’s more spacious inside, like a tiny cave, but the ceiling is so low that we can’t stand, only sit.  It doesn’t matter.  It’s a shelter, and that’s all I care about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when the rain starts to fall.  Cas pulls his foot into the safety of the hollow just as the first droplets hit the ground.  It turns into a torrential downpour outside in a matter of seconds.  It’s terrifying to look at, to realize that if we’d been a moment too slow, we would’ve been caught in that deadly deluge.  The earth is soaked.  Thick raindrops coat the leaves of the bushes, but the acidity doesn’t seem to affect anything except skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was far too close for comfort.  We got lucky.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Again</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Note to self,”  I say, the rush of the adrenaline making a nervous chuckle bubble up from my throat.  “The rain is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>drinkable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas doesn’t laugh with me.  His chest heaves with overwrought breaths.  He’s borderline hyperventilating.  I reach over to touch his shoulder, to hopefully offer him solace after that frightening near-catastrophe, but then the piercing screams echo through the air outside our little cave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I freeze up.  Cas flinches next to me.  The two of us dare to peer out beyond the rock overhang, and my heart drops when I see the distant figure of another tribute frantically careening through the forest, in the midst of the acidic downpour.  He’s thrashing around, as if he’s trying to swat away the rain that’s pelting him from head to toe.  His shrieks of agony chill my blood to ice.  I can almost hear the sizzling of his flesh from here.  He stumbles, collapses to the ground, flails like he’s on fire, screams to the dark sky above, until he eventually stops moving altogether.  The air is horrifically silent without the sound of his anguished voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach churns when the cannon fires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That could’ve been us.  If we would’ve run in the wrong direction or missed this rock overhang, we’d be dead, boiled alive by that acid rain.  The few drops that landed on my skin were insufferably painful.  I don’t even want to think about how it would feel to be bombarded by the torrential downpour out there.  That boy’s screams were so agonized, so full of terror, and he couldn’t do anything to save himself.  That’s absolutely nightmarish, and it could’ve happened to us if we weren’t quick enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One look at Cas’ horrified face tells me he’s thinking the exact same thing.  All the color has drained from his skin.  He brushes his damp hair back with trembling fingers as he inches away from the opening of the little cave.  He stops when he hits the back wall of cold rock, then hugs his knees into his chest.  He looks like he’s going to be sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think this is the first death he’s witnessed with his own eyes.  I saw some of the horrendous fights at the bloodbath after the Games began—it still sickens me to think about—but he ran and hid up in a tree before any of it really kicked off.  That poor boy who was essentially eaten by acid rain is the first person Cas has seen die in this arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I join him at the back of the hollow.  I sit close to him, press our sides together, in an attempt to soothe some of his distress.  He’s shivering, but I can’t think of anything to say.  The rain is still pouring, drumming against the leaves and the top of the rock.  In any other scenario, I’d say it was relaxing, but knowing its lethal potential is enough to keep me on edge.  At least we should be safe as long as we stay under the rock overhang and inside our small cave.  We’ll just have to wait for the storm to pass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As deafening claps of thunder boom through the air and the flood of adrenaline begins to fade from my system, I realize I hurt more than ever.  It’s like concrete was pumped into my body and left to dry and harden.  I’m so stiff and sore, but I’m thankful I’m still aware and conscious, though, not like before we found that pond.  I suppose that’s looking on the bright side of this grim situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Bobby can find a sponsor who’s willing to send us painkillers.  That would be a game changer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minutes drag into hours, and not once does the rain let up.  Cas starts to relax after a short while of sitting in silence, but I can tell he’s still shaken.  Who wouldn’t be after what just happened?  Regardless, we each eat two crackers and a strip of the jerky, then take a sip of water.  We’ll need to be careful with how much we drink now.  Who knows if we’ll be able to return to that pond once the storm blows over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t realize how much the temperature has plummeted until I start shivering.  The rocks surrounding us are cold.  The rain, even though it isn’t real rain, has cooled the sultry air down significantly.  It’s pleasant compared to the last few days of unbearable heat, to say the least, but I’m worried that we’ve grown so used to the high temperature that this patch of cold is going to take its toll.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas looks exhausted.  He sits with his chin on his knees, staring at nothing, expression miserable.  There’s not much to do other than wait for the rain to stop, so he might as well get some rest while he can.  I’m not tired, anyway.  I’m still too worked up from the harrowing events of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to try to sleep a bit?”  I ask, my weary voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of the storm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, he doesn’t question it.  He looks like he’s on the verge of bursting into tears, and it pains me to see him so upset.  He takes the knapsack and sets it on the hard ground to use it as a pillow.  Then he lies down, just a couple of feet away and facing me, and forces his eyes closed.  I hope his sleep is restful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t tell what time of day it is with the dark clouds blocking out the sky.  After our hunt for water, our blissful sit by the pond, our frantic escape from the rain, and now our time in the hollow, it must be late afternoon or early evening.  Whatever time it is, the rainforest outside is dim and dusky.  It’s even darker underneath the rock overhang, and that means it’s getting colder.  Never did I think I’d ever get chilled in a place like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rhythmic pitter pattering of the acid rain threatens to lull me to sleep until I hear deep vibrations resonating through the air.  It rumbles the ground beneath me.  Fleeting terror courses through my veins as I peer outside and see an ominous mechanical claw descending from the sky.  It picks up the body of the tribute wasted away by the acid before disappearing out of sight, just like that.  Hovercraft, most likely.  I think that’s how they retrieve the bodies from the arena to send them back to their home districts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how Cas didn’t wake up from all that noise, but I’m grateful.  He didn’t need to see that.  Not after listening to that poor boy’s screams of pure agony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twelve tributes are down now.  Twelve out of a total of twenty-two we need to outlive.  We’ve passed the halfway point, and it’s only day three.  Part of me is relieved.  Another is excited.  But mostly, I’m dreading what comes next.  Dehydration almost claimed me early on, and that was terrifying for both Cas and me.  We very nearly shared the same awful fate as that tribute who just got retrieved from the arena by a hovercraft.  What’s next?  A wild animal attack?  A never-ending storm of acid rain to keep us confined in this hollow until we starve?  A </span>
  <em>
    <span>flood </span>
  </em>
  <span>of acid, perhaps?  It’s impossible to tell, but if the Gamemakers are one thing, it’s wicked and monstrous.  They could come up with anything to take us out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas is shivering.  His brows are furrowed.  I think he’s still asleep, but his arms wrap around himself in a subconscious attempt to warm up.  It doesn’t seem to work, though.  His trembling worsens.  I don’t know if this is going to help, but I have to give it a shot.  He looks so uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I crawl over to him and rub his arm to rouse him.  He starts at first, eyes snapping open, but when he realizes it’s just me, he relaxes.  “You’re shivering,”  I say, moving back to rest against the rocky wall.  “Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A look of confusion settles on Cas’ face.  He pushes himself upright, staring at me like I’m speaking a different language.  “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here,”  I repeat, waving him over to me.  “Like we did the night before the Games.  It might be warmer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems to take a moment for my words to register in Cas’ mind.  Then his eyes widen, a faint tint of pink flushing onto his cheeks.  “Oh,”  he murmurs, barely audible.  Still, he draws an unsteady breath and makes his way over to my side.  “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thunder rumbles as he nestles up next to me.  His presence is strong and warm and comforting.  At first he seems hesitant to get too close, but before I have a chance to say anything, he leans over and rests his head on my shoulder, in the crook of my neck.  The weight of his head and the sensation of his shivering body pressed against my side makes a burst of warmth prickle in my chest.  I have to swallow the lump forming in my throat when he wraps his hand around my arm and burrows closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long for him to stop trembling and slip back into slumber.  His breathing slows, stabilizes to a rhythm so soothing that listening to it starts to make me sleepy.  It’s like the chilly temperature doesn’t even exist.  All I notice is his warmth, his reassuring company.  It’s just like the night before the Games, when the simple act of lying next to him was enough to lull me to sleep.  I’m not sure what it is about him that does that to me, but I’m not complaining.  I’m thankful he’s here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The steady drumming of the rain, the occasional clap of thunder, and the comfort of Cas using me as a pillow eventually pull me into a state of drowsiness.  Maybe it’ll be okay if I sleep for a bit.  No one can reach our little hollow in this deadly downpour, anyway.  We’d hear their pained screams from a mile away.  We should be fine if I doze off, just as long as I wake up before the rain stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I know it, my heavy head slumps to the side, resting on top of Cas’.  I go out like a light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time I come around, it’s dark outside.  The lethal storm has finally ceased.  The chirping of birds and insects is the only sound in the rainforest now.  The shrubs just beyond the rock overhang are coated with raindrops, and the air still smells of damp earth.  I’ve always loved the aftereffects of a thunderstorm.  The silence, the stillness, the smell.  I would love this, too, but it’s difficult to admire things in a place as dangerous as this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The anthem suddenly blasts through the forest, rousing me from my lethargy.  It wakes Cas up, too.  He tightens his grip on my arm, bolts upright and away from my shoulder.  The two of us carefully crawl out from under the rock overhang to see the canopy above.  Only one tribute appears in the sky today, and it’s the second boy from District 4.  He must’ve been the one who was caught in the acid rain earlier.  That means District 4 is out of the Games, as well.  I’m kind of surprised.  Usually the Careers last a lot longer than this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No time to ponder it.  I’m just turning to ask Cas how he’s feeling when I hear a faint chime echoing through the trees.  It doesn’t sound particularly menacing, but I still reach for my switchblade.  I’m not taking any chances at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I see the small plastic container descending from the sky, carried by a gleaming silver parachute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a gift from a sponsor.  I’d recognize that iconic silver parachute anywhere.  The container lands on the ground in front of the rock overhang, and the chiming stops.  Overwhelming excitement floods through me when I exchange a wide-eyed glance with Cas and bring the container back into our hollow.  We got a gift from a sponsor!  We managed to impress someone in the Capitol enough that they spent a pretty penny to send us something in the arena.  I shouldn’t be as thrilled about this as I am, but I can’t help it.  We got our first sponsor gift!  What’s not to be excited about?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My joy only increases tenfold when I open the lid of the container and reveal a plethora of nourishing snacks.  A hearty loaf of bread, slices of cheese, a bag of dried fruit, a couple of protein bars, and an apple.  My stomach growls just looking at the glorious selection.  I wonder how much all of this cost.  Not as much as medicine or weapons, I presume, but if we ration this correctly, this can keep us going for a number of days.  That’s not even including the natural food we might find around the rainforest.  This is encouraging.  This is so, so encouraging.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I see a small slip of paper beneath the protein bars then.  I pick it up and squint to read it through the darkness.  It looks like it’s from Bobby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Enjoy.  And keep on not dying</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s definitely from Bobby.  I can’t help but smile as I read it out to Cas, and he smiles, too.  I don’t think I’ve seen him look this elated in a long while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We decide to eat the cheese first since that won’t stay fresh for very long in this heat.  The texture is so smooth, so divine.  Neither of us talks because we’re so busy savoring the delectable flavor, but it’s gone before we know it.  We pack the rest of the food back into the container and stuff it in our knapsack to save for later.  Most of it will keep for a considerable length of time.  The bread might get stale, but that doesn’t matter.  I’d take stale bread any day over collapsing from starvation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spirits are high.  We received our first gift from a sponsor, and although it might not be the best or most expensive gift we could’ve gotten, it’s still special.  It gave us precious food that could keep us going for a while.  Besides, maybe now that the Games have really kicked off and we’re still thriving, more and more sponsors will take an interest in us.  It’s very possible.  It’s happened before, and I can’t stop my excitement from swelling the more I think about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I get situated against the rocky wall once more, a grin stretching from ear to ear as I close my eyes to take my turn of resting.  There’s hope in the air now.  Not a lot, of course, considering our grim circumstance, but just enough to boost my mood, and at this rate, I’ll take whatever I can get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I hear the twigs snapping outside.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The switchblade is in my grasp in an instant.  I stop breathing as I spare a glance at Cas’ panic-stricken face, as another twig snaps and chills my blood to ice.  I beckon to him, wanting him closer to me, and press a trembling finger to my lips.  Something—or </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>—is out there, and I’d prefer not to find out what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart hammers inside my chest as Cas huddles up next to me, silent as a mouse.  I don’t dare peer out into the darkness past the rock overhang.  Anything could be hiding in the shadows, waiting for us to show ourselves.  I barely move a muscle.  Neither does Cas.  My lungs have started to burn.  My fear rises when the sharp snap of another twig echoes through the air, but I keep a tight grip on the blade.  Just in case I finally have to use it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confusion overwhelms me, though, when a small high-pitched squeal rings in my ears.  It doesn’t sound human.  It sounds like an animal of some kind, and certainly not a dangerous one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I even have a chance to exchange a bewildered look with Cas, a flurry of movement outside the hollow catches my eye.  We lean down and peep out into the darkness, and there we see two tiny creatures playing in the leaves.  They’re fuzzy and dark gray and have long tails and miniature humanlike hands, and dare I say their high-pitched squeals are kind of adorable.  I think I’ve seen creatures like these in previous Games, have learned about them a small bit during school.  I think they’re a species of monkey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pay us no mind as they romp around the forest floor, kicking up dirt and sticks and grabbing at one another’s tails without a care in the world.  Their squeals of delight are rather shrill, but I can’t help but smile as Cas and I watch them frolic through the leaves.  The childlike glee shining in my district partner’s eyes warms my heart.  I find myself watching his mirthful smile widen more than the monkeys playing outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Far too soon, the charming little creatures scurry off into the night, and Cas and I are left alone once again.  That was a pleasant surprise.  Much better than anything I was expecting, anyway.  I thought for sure I was going to have to use the switchblade to defend ourselves from some horrible beast or another bloodthirsty tribute, but I’m relieved I didn’t have to.  I was skilled at blade combat in training, sure, but the thought of doing it for real and with our lives at stake makes shivers run down my spine.  At least we were spared tonight and had the opportunity to see a couple of lovable monkeys.  Cas definitely seemed to enjoy their antics.  I’m glad.  He deserved that nice moment after all the stress we’ve both endured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cast him a warm smile—which he returns with an enraptured laugh that seems to melt away the tension in me—as I lean back once more to take my resting period.  Sleep finds me quickly after the joy of seeing those monkeys.  In a few hours, Cas wakes me, just like we planned.  It’s still the dead of night, but it’s peacefully quiet.  Even some of the birds have silenced their cheerful songs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Cas takes the knapsack and tries to fluff it as he would a pillow, I can’t stop a wave of perplexity from washing over me.  “Are you still cold?”  I ask before I have a chance to think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My breathing halts again when Cas’ gaze meets my own.  He looks taken aback, lips parted but unable to form words.  In the time it takes him to speak, I’m worried I was too forward.  “A little,”  he eventually says with a shrug, “but I’ll give you some space.  I’ll be okay for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure why I feel so disappointed when he flashes me a reassuring glance and lies down on the ground a few feet away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night is hushed and lonesome.  Without most of the birds, the air is so still that I can hear my own heartbeat.  It’s unsettling.  It puts me on high alert.  I keep waiting to hear something in the distance, something that would allude to immediate peril, but I only find uneasy silence.  Instead of relaxing me, that just makes the apprehension worse.  Anything or anyone could be stalking around out there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The quietude beyond the rock overhang becomes the least of my concerns when Cas starts whimpering in his sleep.  At first they’re small, soft, not enough to raise any red flags.  People make noises in their sleep all the time.  It’s only when the whimpers turn into terrified cries that my heart begins to race.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m by his side in an instant, holding his arm as he bolts upright in a blind panic, eyes wide and a horrified cry getting caught in his throat.  His breathing is frantic and shallow.  I say his name, grip his arm even tighter, try to calm him down, but it’s like I’m not even here.  Tears glisten in his frightened eyes.  He’s glancing around in a frenzy, like he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on.  He doesn’t even look at me until I practically shout his name, and then he seems to completely freeze in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,”  I tell him, my chest aching.  His shoulders still heave with distraught breaths as his gaze bores into me.  “It’s okay, Cas.  You’re okay.  You’re here with me.  It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An agonizing moment passes where Cas doesn’t seem to hear me at all, but his stare drops to the ground as a tear falls from his cheek.  His lip is quivering.  His entire body has started to tremble.  “I’m sorry,”  he whimpers, his voice so strangled and broken that it squeezes all the oxygen out of my lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be sorry.  It’s okay.”  I rub his arm in a feeble attempt to soothe his distress.  “Bad dream?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, and another tear drips off his chin and lands on the ground beneath us.  It must’ve been an awful nightmare if he woke up in such a panicked frenzy.  I can’t even imagine what kinds of horrors his subconscious mind tormented him with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure if words will make him feel better.  As he chokes on a sob, desperately trying to keep his tears at bay, I lean back against the rocky wall and open my arm out to him; he doesn’t hesitate to nestle up against me, closer than ever before.  He buries his face in my shoulder, in the crook of my neck.  I can feel his quivering lip and the hot tears streaming from his eyes.  He only burrows deeper into my side when I wrap my arm around him, thumb gently rubbing his trembling shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,”  I soothe.  “You’re here with me.  You’re okay.  I’m okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shuddering sigh racks his body.  I can just feel how rapidly his heart is pounding.  Part of me wants to ask him what his nightmare was about, maybe ease some of his terror, but I don’t have to.  He lifts his shaking hand and rests it on my chest.  He clutches the fabric of my shirt for a fleeting moment before releasing it, letting his palm lie right over my hammering heart.  My stomach twinges when the warmth from his hand seeps into my skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s better if I don’t ask him about the details of his bad dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how we remain until dawn creeps into view.  My arm wrapped around his shivering body, his head against my neck, his hand on my chest.  I think he managed to slip into brief moments of slumber off and on throughout the night, knowing that I was right there next to him, but most of the dark hours were spent with both of us awake.  I don’t mind.  Making sure he feels safe and comfortable is far more important to me than sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When faint rays of sunlight begin to pierce through the canopy and pool onto the ground beyond our hollow, Cas draws an unsteady breath and sits up, forcing himself to peel away from my side.  He looks exhausted and still shaken, dark bags beneath his puffy eyes.  I wish there was something I could do to fully ease his nerves, but I’m not sure what.  At least it’s daytime.  I know I always feel better when the sun rises after I’ve had a particularly unpleasant dream.  Maybe, with time, that will help him, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chorus of chirping birds has returned.  They fill the hot, muggy air with cheerful songs and bring the rainforest to life yet again.  As I sit up and stretch my sore muscles, I see a bright green lizard—I think that’s what they’re called—scuttle over fallen leaves and broken twigs.  The forest seems extra alive this morning, teeming with interesting creatures I’ve never seen before.  With the monkeys last night, and the lizard just now, I’m curious to know what other kinds of creatures call this rainforest their home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gives me an idea.  I turn to Cas as he twiddles his trembling thumbs and keeps his rattled stare locked on the ground below him.  “Do you wanna go get some fresh air?”  I ask.  I know he might not take the bait, but it’s worth a shot.  It might be good for him to get up and walk around after last night’s terrors.  “We could look for some berries or other edible plants, too.  Put your memory skills to the test.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A feeble, near-nonexistent smile tugs on the corner of Cas’ mouth.  He takes a deep breath and lifts his gaze to meet mine.  “Okay,”  he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before we venture out, we each eat a cracker and a small strip of jerky, then down a few sips of water.  I pack up the knapsack and sling it over my shoulders.  I’m nervous about braving the arena outside our safe hollow again, but we’ll just have to be cautious and keep our trip short and sweet.  I’m sure the Gamemakers would find a way to drive us out if we stayed in there for too long, anyway.  Can’t let the people of the Capitol get bored now, can they?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I forgot just how insufferably stifling the air of the rainforest is.  The instant Cas and I crawl out past the rock overhang and rise to our feet, I already miss the cool temperature of the rocks in our hollow.  The humidity clings to me.  Still, I tell him to stay close, and we journey out into the tropical forest.  I make sure to take note of the nearby landmarks so we can return to the overhang without getting lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As we walk, Cas practically glues himself to my side.  He’s jumpy, too.  Every time a bird flies from tree to tree above our heads, rustling the leaves, he starts and sucks in a sharp breath.  Every time either of us steps on a twig and breaks it, he grabs my arm with a grip so tight it’s like he’s cutting off my circulation.  That nightmare must’ve affected him a lot more than I initially thought.  All I can do is reassure him that everything’s okay as we continue through the foliage in search of edible food or another source of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time midday rolls around, we still haven’t found anything, and it’s getting too hot to keep moving.  We come across a small clearing surrounded by ferns and bushes to conceal us from anything on the outside and sit down against a boulder to rest.  We sip on the water.  Our bottle is about half empty.  The earth beneath us is slightly damp, so surely there’s a water source around here somewhere.  We’ll just have to keep searching after we regain some of our energy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas leans his head back on the boulder, eyes closed and knees hugged into his chest.  He’s loosening up, little by little, but I’ll give him all the time he needs.  I can’t even begin to imagine how horrible his dream must’ve been if the aftermath is still terrifying him during the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just about to ask him how he’s feeling when a flash of red catches my eye.  Fear floods through me, and I grab the switchblade, ready to defend, but then I see the magnificent bird sitting on a rock right across from us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of its feathers are a brilliant shade of scarlet, but the tips of its wings are bright yellow and blue.  It merely watches me with a tilted head, its beady eyes blinking curiously.  It doesn’t seem to fit in with the greens and browns of the rainforest around it.  It stands out like a shining star in the darkness of the night, and it’s absolutely beautiful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nudge Cas, feeling an astonished smile stretching across my face as I stare at the incredible bird.  When he opens his eyes, I nod at the rock across from us.  He notices the bird instantly, and my heart swells when a smile of his own lights up his tired gaze.  With both of us watching the fascinating creature now, it glances between the two of us like it’s trying to decide who to focus on.  It seems to pick Cas, because in one swift hop, the bird lands on the ground and waddles over to him.  Not once does it break its inquisitive stare with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi there,”  my district partner coos as the bird stops just before his feet, tilting its head to the side once more.  It’s a rather large bird—it almost comes up to Cas’ knees—but it doesn’t seem threatening in the slightest.  It looks genuinely transfixed by the sight of two humans in its forest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, I reach out to stroke the bird’s soft, vivid plumage.  It doesn’t jump or attack at my touch.  It hardly reacts at all, just closes its eyes as if it’s enjoying the sensation.  Cas follows my lead, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing when the bird gently headbutts his hand, demanding more attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like I’m being replaced,”  I say with a grin as Cas pets the bird like a dog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The winged animal waddles closer, and Cas chuckles.  “Looks like you and the bird are gonna have to fight.  Whoever wins gets to be my trusty sidekick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think I have the upper hand.”  I hold up the switchblade, laughing as it glints in the light.  “I’m the one with a weapon.  And opposable thumbs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ smile stretches from ear to ear.  It shines in his eyes as he pets the bird’s smooth feathers, even rubs under its beak.  He’s clearly found a new friend, and I can’t even be jealous.  He looks so gleeful and carefree for the first time in a long, long while, and seeing him happy makes me happy.  I wish this moment could last forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All too soon, the bird gives a contented squawk, and it spreads its massive, colorful wings and flies up into the trees above us.  Cas watches it go, craning his neck to see the tall trees.  He doesn’t look upset, much to my relief.  He looks more satisfied than anything, grateful that we had the opportunity to spend a few moments with a magnificent animal that didn’t want to hurt us, and I’m grateful, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just then, we hear the bird let out another loud squawk from somewhere in the canopy.  The leaves rustle.  Small broken branches shower over us.  Finally, something plummets to the ground at our feet.  It looks like—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bananas!”  Cas exclaims, scooping up the bright green bunch.  “I knew there had to be banana trees around here somewhere.  I just didn’t know where.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are six of them connected together.  That’s more than enough to keep us going for a while.  Combine that with the food we received from our first sponsor, and we might as well be eating like kings here in the arena.  This is incredible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Excitement courses through me as I stare up at the trees in which the flamboyant bird disappeared.  “Thank you, feathered friend!”  I call up to it, and I swear I hear a pleased squawk echoing in the distance in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take the bunch from Cas and tuck it away in the safety of the knapsack.  We have so much food in there now, and just looking at the wonderful array makes my hopes skyrocket.  We shouldn’t go hungry for days.  As long as we keep rationing it like we have been, we’ll be golden.  Now all we need to do is find a water source near our rock overhang, and everything will be absolutely perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t believe a bird aided in our survival.  How remarkable is that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afternoon is approaching.  We should start heading back to the hollow before it gets dark.  We each take a small sip of water, then carry on our way.  We barely make it ten feet before Cas lets out a noise of enthusiasm, and he bolts off to the left.  By the time I catch up with him, I see he’s found a short tree that looks like it’s growing some kind of food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cashews,”  he explains with an eager smile before I can even ask.  “A type of nut.  They’re really good for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t need to tell me twice.  We both grab a couple of handfuls of cashews and pile them into the container we received from our sponsor.  The knapsack is getting so heavy with food that it’s starting to weigh me down, but that is far from an issue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if our situation couldn’t get any better, we stumble across a brook not ten minutes from our rock overhang.  We don’t top off our water bottle yet, seeing as we still have half left, but we’ll return in the morning.  It’s like we’ve found the perfect hideout.  We have that small stream, a cashew tree nearby, and a friendly bird who might just drop us more bananas if we find it again.  Things are looking up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although, part of me fears that things are going a bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>well.  Is this the Gamemakers toying with us?  Trying to lead us into a false sense of security by giving us plenty of food and a source of water before they plot something to take us out?  It’s possible.  I wouldn’t put it past them, but nothing is happening right now.  That’s all we can focus on, and if worst comes to worst, we’ll just have to be ready, like we always have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But tonight, we feast.  Responsibly.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As evening falls, Cas and I share an exquisite meal of cashews, small slices of that delicious bread, a few pieces of dried fruit, and half a banana each, and we’ve still barely made a dent in our selection.  We wash it down with generous sips of water, knowing that we have a brook at our disposal, and lean back against the rocky wall of our hollow to let it all digest in our rumbling stomachs.  This time, though, the rumbling isn’t from hunger.  It’s from blissful satisfaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I haven’t felt this full in a long while.  It’s amazing.  In reality, I think it’s only been a matter of days, but to me, it seems like eons.  What is this, the fourth day in the arena?  I think so.  It’s hard to believe it hasn’t been four weeks.  Does time move slower here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No time to ponder it.  The anthem blasts through the air just as darkness settles over the rainforest.  No pictures appear in the canopy above.  No one died today.  The birds return to their blithe songs in seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is about the point in the Games where most of the tributes have adapted to the arena and are either in hiding or trying to hunt the others down.  It’s no surprise that there weren’t any deaths today.  Other than the remaining Careers, I’m sure the tributes from the other outlying districts are lying low, much like Cas and me.  It’s only a matter of time before the Gamemakers come up with some twisted trick to bring us all together.  It’s bad business for them to have a dull, deathless day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t worry myself sick with that unnerving thought.  It won’t do me any good to fret about something that hasn’t happened yet.  It’s difficult, but I try to push it out of my racing mind and instead focus my attention on Cas, who’s absentmindedly tracing circles in the dirt with his finger.  It’s nighttime now, and even though he looks exhausted, something tells me he won’t want to go to sleep after what happened last night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An idea hits me then.  It’s rather out of the blue, but it makes a smile pull at my lips just thinking about it.  “When’s your birthday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a puzzled frown on Cas’ face when he glances up to meet my eyes, but he’s smiling, too.  “What?”  he says with a breathy chuckle.  “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shrug.  “Because I don’t know that many personal things about you.  We haven’t really had time to sit down and gossip like we’re at a sleepover.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And because I know he won’t want to sleep and I’m hoping this will distract him until he relaxes enough, but I don’t mention that outright.  Plus, I genuinely want to know more about him.  I hardly know anything other than bits and pieces regarding his family.  It’s a win-win.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas breathes out another laugh, dropping his gaze to the ground.  “September 18,”  he says when he glances back up.  There’s an emotion glimmering in his eyes that I can’t quite discern, but whatever it is, it makes me happy.  “When’s yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“January 24.”  I can’t stifle a laugh when he makes a face.  “I know, right in the dead of winter.  I almost didn’t survive because it was so cold that year.  At least that’s what my mom always says.  She could just be being dramatic, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile widens.  I tell him it’s his turn to ask me a question now.  He pauses to think, seeming to be lost in his mind as he struggles to come up with something to ask.  Finally, he says, “What’s your favorite color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, jumping right to the super personal stuff,”  I remark.  I can’t help but grin when Cas lets out an abrupt chuckle at my playfully sarcastic comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My favorite color.  That’s a tough one.  I draw a deep breath, mulling over my options.  I’ve never really given it too much thought before.  There hasn’t been a need to, but I have to answer.  This is a very important question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blue,”  I declare.  “Like a clear sky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods.  A different expression passes over his face for a fleeting moment, but it disappears before I have a chance to decipher it.  “That’s a nice color,”  he agrees, his voice much softer than it was mere seconds ago.  “It’s probably a tie between green and purple for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Green like Caesar Flickerman’s choice of attire this year?”  I ask, raising an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God no.”  The pure disgust in Cas’ tone almost sends me into a wild fit of laughter.  I’ve never heard him sound so repulsed, but he quickly smiles again when he realizes how brusque he was.  “More like a muted green.  Not too vibrant like the trees out there.  Nice and mellow.  And purple is just so pretty.  I see it on a lot of wildflowers that grow in the neighborhood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can agree with that.  He has good taste in colors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your favorite season?”  I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely autumn,”  Cas replies in a heartbeat.  “I love when the leaves change colors.  It’s like a painting come to life.  I always walk by the trees on the outskirts of the district when it’s autumn, just so I can look at all of the different hues.  I guess that means gold is one of my favorite colors, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That sounds magical.  If we make it out of here, I’d love to join him on that walk.  I was always so busy with working that I hardly paid any attention to the changing leaves, but now that he brings it up, I want to see it, too; I make sure to tell him that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like spring,”  I say.  “It means winter is over and the days get longer and warmer.  Plus, we have a patch of wildflowers that grows outside our house.  They usually pop up after the snow melts.  Sam always gets so excited when he sees those little flowers growing.  He likes to pick a few and put them in a vase for safekeeping.  I guess that’s kind of our spring tradition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of those flowers were still alive and well the morning we left for the reaping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your favorite food that we ate while we were in the Capitol?”  Cas inquires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another important question.  “Probably either the roasted duck or that insanely delicious apple pie,”  I say.  Great.  Now I’m just craving apple pie.  We have an apple, sure, but that won’t cut it.  It’s not the same.  The Capitol is good for one thing and one thing only, and that’s their incredible selection of delectable food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas says his favorite food was the lamb stew we shared the night before the Games.  That certainly was flavorful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We keep going back and forth, asking one another random but entertaining questions.  Cas says he’d like to visit District 4 if he could because of the water and their major fishing industry.  I have to agree with him on that.  Seeing that would be interesting.  He also says he’s always wanted a cat as a pet, but his family’s too poor to afford to take care of one.  I tell him about my family’s cows, Annie and Clementine, and his face absolutely lights up.  I promise him he can hang out with them like Sam does if we get out of here.  He seems content with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He likes to read whenever he has spare time.  That must be why he’s so intelligent.  I haven’t read a book in a long time.  I was always so swamped with working in the fields.  He says he’s never really had a close friend before—I hope he can’t hear my heart shattering—but when he asks about Charlie, I tell him that she would love to have him as a friend, would gladly take him under her wing.  Now I just want the two of them to meet.  I bet they’d be best friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That reminds me.  Thinking about Charlie and how she isn’t attracted to boys makes the thought hit me like a brick wall.  It’s the question I wanted to ask him before the Games began, but he’d already fallen asleep.  About the last thing Caesar asked him during his interview.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I’m suddenly so flooded with nerves that I can’t get the question out.  It’s just a harmless inquiry.  I don’t know why I’m freezing up.  We’re getting to know one another, aren’t we?  Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for the past hour or so?  Why is it so difficult to string those words together and ask the question I’ve been wanting to since that night?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s too late.  I’ve missed my chance for the second time.  Cas yawns, actually looks like he’s ready for sleep.  That’s good, at least, but I’m frustrated with myself for not spitting the question out sooner.  It was the perfect opportunity.  We were sharing information about ourselves.  Now I might not find another ideal moment like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t let it eat me up.  I’ll find out somehow.  For now, Cas is looking at me, and it takes me a beat to realize he’s speaking to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I?”  he asks softly, sheepishly, nodding his head at my shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I open my arm out to him without hesitation.  He nestles up next to me, snuggles into my side, and falls asleep in a matter of minutes.  I can hear his breathing slow.  Mine, on the other hand, only quickens.  The soothing sounds of the rainforest are all around me.  Cas is asleep, at peace, using me as a pillow like he has plenty of times before.  I don’t know why there’s such a weight on my chest, quickening my breaths and stimulating my racing heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t figure out the cause, so I try to ignore it for now.  Instead I focus on staying alert and keeping watch while Cas rests.  It’s all I can do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few hours, I wake him.  No nightmares tonight.  I’m glad.  As he sits up, casts me a feeble smile, the weight seems to lessen, but it does nothing to ease my frantic heartbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have my first dream in what must be days.  I’m running from something, darting through the dense foliage of the rainforest, but it’s much darker than real life.  The tree roots are knotted and gnarled, and they slither beneath my feet as I run for my life, hissing and snarling like a wild animal.  Ominous growls echo through the air.  Beside me, through the bushes, I see a pair of gleaming red eyes.  There’s another pair of footsteps behind me now, chasing me.  I dare to turn around, and I see Cresh.  He has talons instead of fingernails, sharp teeth, scarlet eyes, skin so pale and taut that I can see his jagged bones trying to poke through, and he’s hungry.  He’s growling like a ravenous predator.  I barely have time to scream before he pounces and digs his talons into my chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I awake with a start, eyes snapping open and a cold sweat coating my body that isn’t torn to shreds, I realize it’s dawn.  I can see sunlight.  It’s not the dark, twisted rainforest from my dreams.  That doesn’t exist, and neither does that horrible monster version of Cresh.  The real Cresh is still out there, though, his intentions just as wicked as his nightmare counterpart’s, but at least he’s human.  That I can deal with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m still shivering, adrenaline pouring through my veins, when I notice Cas looking at me, concern written all over his expression.  “Are you okay, Dean?”  he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite everything, I manage a nod.  I don’t think I am okay, but I’d rather not relay the details of that awful nightmare, and especially not to Cas.  Cresh frightens the two of us enough as it is.  I don’t want to scare him with the idea of the monster version my subconscious mind decided to cook up.  I’ll just deal with it myself.  “Yeah, I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, I don’t think he believes me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time we drink up the remaining water in our bottle, I’m starting to feel better.  As long as I keep reminding myself that it was only a dream, then I’m able to push the unnerving thoughts of being hunted by that boy from District 1 out of my head.  He may still be out there, but I suppose I’m just relying on the fact that someone else will kill him before he finds us.  Both of the tributes from District 2 are still alive.  Maybe there will be a big Career battle to entertain the Capitol soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of, I haven’t heard any cannons since the anthem last night.  That means there still haven’t been any more deaths.  The people of the Capitol will be getting bored, thirsting for bloodshed and violence.  As Cas and I pack up to visit the nearby brook and refill our water bottle, I can’t help but fear what kind of event the Gamemakers might be plotting to bring some of the tributes together to fight.  I can only hope that they’ll exclude us from whatever they’re planning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not unbearably hot today, much to my relief.  Birds sing, insects chirp, lizards scurry across the ground as Cas and I make our way to the brook.  I try not to look at the tree roots scattered around, even though they’re perfectly normal in reality.  The images of their slithering, hissing forms from my nightmare are still fresh in my mind.  They were almost as horrifying as monster Cresh.  I’ve started to shake again by the time we find the brook, but I try to hide it as best as I can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fill up the water bottle to the brim.  Cas squeezes a few droplets of iodine into it.  The container is about half empty now.  We sit by the edge of the stream and wait for the water to purify, and I just know he’s watching me carefully, eyes glimmering with worry.  You can’t conceal the aftermath of a terrifying nightmare.  I’m sure he knows that’s why I woke so abruptly, and it probably didn’t help that I brushed it off like it was nothing.  I wonder if I was making noises, like he did before he jolted awake from his bad dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m okay, Cas,”  I say, shattering the uneasy silence hanging over us.  I don’t want him to worry about me and my nightmare that wasn’t real.  He has enough on his plate.  “Really, I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His nod is so minuscule that I almost miss it.  He swallows, drops his gaze to the brook, twiddles his thumbs in his lap.  “Okay,”  he murmurs.  “I was just gonna say that you can tell me about it if it’s bothering you.  I can handle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s impossible to suppress a smile at his reassuring words.  He’s too nice to me.  “Thanks, Cas,”  I say, knowing full well that I’ll keep my horrible dream a secret for the time being.  Maybe I’ll tell him if we see Cresh’s picture in the sky one of these days, if that ever happens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water should be purified.  I put the bottle in my knapsack, sling it over my shoulders, and lead the way back to the rock overhang.  We see another one of those fascinating scarlet and yellow and blue birds flying overhead on the way, but unfortunately, this one doesn’t drop us more bananas.  Although, a lizard does scuttle across Cas’ foot, and it must tickle because he lets out a delighted laugh as the bright green creature disappears into a nearby bush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My high spirits have almost completely returned when the rock overhang creeps into view.  Seeing another one of the brilliant birds, watching that lizard give Cas a burst of joy, and realizing that the rainforest is in fact still normal and not a place of twisted nightmares makes me start to forget my bad dream ever happened in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I hear the scuffling coming from underneath the overhang.  A muffled voice, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s someone in our hollow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stop dead in my tracks, paralyzing terror surging through me.  I shove Cas behind me, hold him back with my arm, draw the switchblade with the other.  I knew things were going too well.  Something bad was bound to happen sooner or later.  I just never expected it to involve another tribute who wants us dead hiding out in our only place of safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when the boy hears us approaching and scrambles out to greet us, I find myself more frightened than I probably should be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not Cresh, his district partner, or any of the others who could kill us without even trying.  No, this boy is stick thin, skinnier than both of us combined, and he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.  Still, that doesn’t stop his dark eyes from glinting like a wild animal’s.  His movements are twitchy and jittery.  A terrifying grin stretches from ear to ear as he rises to his feet and notices us standing there, staring at him.  He looks feral, rabid even, and that alone is enough to make me fear him more than the Careers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello!”  he exclaims, voice strangled and strained.  He hardly sounds human anymore.  “Have you come to visit me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s insane.  He’s lost his mind.  The blood roars in my ears, heart pounds out of my chest as he takes a staggering step toward us.  I step back, moving Cas along with me, holding up the switchblade with a trembling hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach plunges to my feet when the boy’s oddly gleeful expression transforms into one of horrifying sadness.  “Why are you backing away?”  he asks.  “You’re not scared of me, are you?  I thought we were friends!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He advances again, little by little.  Cas grabs my arm, his grip deathlike.  This tribute could pounce at any moment.  He’s not stable.  Something’s wrong with him.  Something happened to him, and now he’s dangerous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it’s far too constricted.  “Just stay back,”  I warn.  I hope he doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice.  He might view it as a weakness and attack.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I freeze when the boy lets out a hysterical cackle.  “Friends don’t hurt each other, silly!”  he cries.  “Why would you want to hurt me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another step.  Unbridled panic consumes me.  I can barely breathe.  My chest burns.  Cas tightens his grip on my arm.  I’m going to have to kill this boy, aren’t I?  If he doesn’t leave us alone, or if he lunges, I’m finally going to be forced to use this switchblade.  The mere thought of it makes my insides twist and churn.  But keeping Cas safe is my number one priority.  I can’t let this deranged tribute ruin that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay back,”  I warn again, more determined this time.  “Don’t make me do this.  Just walk away.  No one has to get hurt here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy doesn’t seem to hear me at all.  Another chilling cackle bubbles up from his throat.  He twitches, lets his unhinged grin return.  “I love you guys!”  he shrieks.  He opens his arms out wide and steps toward us.  “Come here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What happens next goes by so fast that the terror coursing through me almost makes me miss it.  All three of us scream some kind of exclamation.  The boy screeches with crazed delight as he advances.  I shout at him to stay away, pointing the blade at his chest.  Cas lets out an alarmed cry.  Then the boy collapses to the ground at our feet.  He spasms and convulses, frothing at the mouth.  I barely hear Cas cry out again over the shrill ringing in my ears.  The boy goes still not five seconds later.  The sound of the cannon echoes through the agonizingly silent air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think Cas buries his face in my shoulder.  I’m not sure.  All I can focus on is the boy lying dead at our feet.  Inches away.  Alive mere moments ago, and now dead, lifeless eyes wide open and mouth glistening with froth.  We watched him die.  We watched it all unfold, right in front of us and in a matter of seconds, and I don’t think we’ll ever be able to unsee what just happened to this poor boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I make my return to reality, I feel bile stinging my throat.  It’s difficult to swallow to keep it down.  My knees are unsteady.  I notice a small knapsack on the boy’s back.  As much as it sickens me to get close to him, we need that bag more than he does.  He has no use for it anymore, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking even the tiniest of breaths hurts.  I gently nudge Cas away from my arm, crouch down at the unmoving tribute’s side, slide the knapsack off his shoulders.  I know Cas probably won’t want to carry the dead boy’s bag.  I don’t, either, but one glance at my district partner’s horrified, nauseated face is enough of a deciding factor.  I shrug off the knapsack I grabbed when the Games first began and hold it out to him.  He doesn’t even seem to realize I’m standing here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas,”  I say softly.  I barely recognize my own wavering voice.  I shake the knapsack, reach out to rub his arm to snap him out of his paralyzed trance.  “Cas, can you take this?  Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a moment to register my words.  Then his terrified bright blue eyes look up to meet mine.  I can see the trauma hiding behind them, can feel just how upset and disturbed and shocked he is, and it only adds to my growing agony.  Still, he takes the knapsack from me with shaking hands and carries it on his back.  With the fallen tribute’s knapsack on mine, I grab Cas’ hand and lead him away from the scene, the rock overhang that once provided us so much security.  I don’t feel safe here anymore.  We need to move on and find something else.  If that boy managed to discover our hideout, then others are sure to follow in time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We keep walking until we’ve put a comfortable amount of distance between us and what happened at the hollow.  When we stop to rest, I don’t hesitate to pull a shivering Cas into my arms.  I hold him close, gently cradle the back of his neck, let go of a trembling exhale as he squeezes me like his life depends on it.  We narrowly avoided a catastrophe.  No matter how horrifying that situation was, at least we’re both still okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit down against a tree to go through the contents of the boy’s knapsack.  There isn’t much.  Some wire and string that we could possibly use to set up a snare, provided we remember how to do it.  More packaged jerky strips.  No iodine or a water bottle, but there is a plastic bag full of a bizarre yellow fruit.  They look like berries of some sort.  I hold it out to Cas to see if he recognizes it; when his face goes pale, I know it can’t be good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those are really poisonous,”  he murmurs.  “They target your nervous system and cause hallucinations.  That must be what happened to…”  He trails off, his words getting caught in his throat.  He doesn’t need to finish.  I know exactly what he means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I ball up the bag of poisonous berries and fling it as far as I can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We continue our search for a new hideout.  An ideal tree like the one I first found Cas in, another hollow, an actual cave, anything.  But as midday bleeds into afternoon, and afternoon bleeds into early evening, we still have nothing.  By the time darkness starts to creep into the rainforest, we know we need to find a place for the night, regardless of its condition.  We manage to find a decent tree with sturdy branches a few yards off the ground.  That’ll be enough for tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m hit with flashbacks of the first night I spent with Cas in the arena as the two of us climb up onto the branches and try our best to settle in.  It feels so long ago that I met up with him, even though it’s only been a few days.  And, judging by the glint in his eyes when he glances at me, I can tell he must be thinking the same thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We sip on our water.  We eat a few crackers, a strip of jerky, some more bread and cashews.  It’s difficult to find topics to discuss as we fuel up.  Every time I blink, I see the face of that boy who ate those poisonous berries and succumbed to madness.  I see his body crashing to the ground and convulsing.  I see the froth bubbling in his mouth.  I can’t stop picturing him, what happened to him, and I don’t even know who he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another cannon fires just minutes before the canopy lights up with the blue seal of the Capitol.  Tonight, the sky shows one of the boys from District 8.  Only four complete pairs left.  Then the face of the boy we watched die flashes up above.  My stomach churns.  Cas tears his gaze away from the canopy.  He was the other boy from District 12, by the looks of it, and now his district is out of the Games, too.  He lasted a while without his partner, though, who died during the very first day.  I’ll give him that.  He just must not have been able to cope with the hunger any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten tributes remain.  Four pairs are still intact.  Districts 1, 2, 9, and 10.  One boy from 7 and 8.  It only gets more perilous and challenging from here on out.  This is where the betting goes crazy.  This is where the people of the Capitol really get invested in the remaining tributes.  This is where we have to be ready to handle the worst of the worst, and I’m not entirely sure if I am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not surprised when Cas tells me he’ll take the first watch.  After our unpleasant encounter with that boy from 12, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep, either, but I know I need to try.  I muster up the most reassuring smile I can, tell him to wake me if anything happens—like usual—and lean back against the trunk.  I just catch a glimpse of another one of those dark gray monkeys jumping around from tree to tree before I force my eyes closed and slip into an unrestful slumber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have no idea what time it is when Cas shakes my arm, but it’s still pitch black out.  I expect to see him as content as he can be and ready for sleep, but instead, he looks afraid, and he hasn’t let go of my arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even have to ask.  I notice the bright orange glow of the campfire just a couple hundred yards to our left in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic overwhelms me.  My heart almost leaps out of my aching chest.  That might as well be a gleaming beacon in the middle of the night, signaling our location to anyone in the vicinity.  Whoever it is, whether it’s one of the Career pairs or one of the boys from 7 or 8, that fire is dangerous, and we’re far too close to it for comfort.  We might be found up in this tree.  I can’t have that.  Not when we’ve made it this far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As quietly as I can, I slide off the branch and land on the ground below.  I hold up my hands to grab Cas’ and soften his descent.  The fire is still blazing behind us, smoke trailing up into the muggy air.  Before anyone has a chance to follow the signal it’s giving off and find us, too, Cas and I hasten through the foliage in the opposite direction, into the darkness of the rainforest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I keep a tight grip on his hand as we blindly stumble through the shrubbery.  I haven’t traveled the forest at night since my search for him.  I forgot just how unnerving, how terrifying it is to wander around a hazardous, unknown place like this in the dark.  Anything could be lurking in the shadows.  I try to shake off the shiver that’s running down my spine as I intertwine our fingers and continue forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I only halt when we reach a small clearing, like the one we found when we met the brightly-colored bird.  I dare to let go of Cas’ hand so I can take a closer look at our surroundings, maybe figure out where we should go next.  Everything is so similar and identical that it’s almost impossible to get our bearings.  Finding another hollow or cave would be ideal, but I haven’t seen any since the rock overhang, and we’re too far away to return now.  We might just have to settle for another tree, even though I’d much rather prefer the cover of a rocky cave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only that boy from 12 hadn’t found our hollow.  We could still be there, in hiding, waiting for the other tributes to take care of one another so we wouldn’t have to fight.  Now I’m starting to fear that that may have been one of the only hollows in the arena, and we’ll have to make do with the poor choices of shelter that remain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just turning my head to ask for Cas’ opinion when I hear the scream.  When I hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My blood chills to ice, heart stops beating.  I whirl around and bolt to him right as he staggers backwards.  I seize his trembling arms before he can fall.  He doesn’t look injured, but his face is twisted into a grimace.  His breaths are shallow and frantic and labored.  He’s not standing up straight.  He’s leaning to one side.  I’m the only thing keeping him from collapsing.  Something is wrong.  Something is terribly wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I hear the hissing disappearing into the distance.  This time it isn’t coming from the tree roots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two ghastly fang marks have broken through the skin on Cas’ leg.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I help him sit down, lean back against a tree.  Every movement looks like it’s hurting him.  He hikes his knee up, grabs at his left calf where the fabric of his pants is torn and the angry fang marks reside in his skin.  Small droplets of crimson blood pool out of them.  It’s already starting to swell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t breathe, can barely think straight.  My hands tremble as I kneel beside him and move the tattered fabric out of the way.  What do I do?  There wasn’t a station about this during training.  There wasn’t a station about first aid, and in retrospect, that seems like a big mistake on the Capitol’s part.  What am I supposed to do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas clutches my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin.  His breathing has calmed, but only slightly, and he still looks just as petrified as before.  I have to be composed and reassuring for him.  I don’t know how, but somehow, I have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you see what bit you?”  I ask.  My voice is so out of control that it doesn’t even sound like me.  Not very composed, am I?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas shakes his head, winces as he tries to move his left leg again.  “No,”  he says.  “I know it was a snake, but I didn’t see what it looked like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a fruitless task to try to swallow the lump in my dry throat.  I rest my hand on his knee, hoping it gives him at least a shred of comfort.  “How much does it hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A weak chuckle slips past his lips.  “A lot,”  he says, “but not as bad as before.  I think it’s already starting to go away.  Maybe it’ll just take some time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sincerely hope that that’s the case, that this was just a random incident with a random snake, and the bite isn’t as serious as it looks like.  The skin around the fang marks is red and blotchy.  The blood isn’t streaming out in copious amounts, thankfully, but it still looks painful.  But, if Cas said the pain is already beginning to fade, then maybe—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice sounds so small as I glance up to meet his wide bright blue eyes.  They’re gleaming with fear, shining in the faint rays of moonlight peeking through the canopy.  “You don’t think it was venomous, do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut.  All the air is knocked out of my burning lungs.  “Is there a way to tell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My worst suspicion is confirmed when Cas shakes his head again.  “Not until the symptoms kick in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a nightmare.  We’ve living in a nightmare.  What if the snake </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>venomous?  We won’t know until some horrible, life-threatening symptom makes an appearance?  That’s far from okay.  I want to help him </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  I can’t bear the thought of waiting around for him to contract a fever, throw up his insides, spit up froth like that boy from District 12.  This is my worst nightmare.  I was supposed to keep him safe, and apparently I couldn’t even do that right.  Now he has fang marks in his leg from a snake that may or may not be lethally venomous, all because I turned my back on him for ten seconds.  What am I supposed to do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel tears stinging in my eyes.  I try to blink them back, draw an unsteady breath to keep them at bay.  “We should’ve just stayed in the tree and taken our chances,”  I say.  My voice threatens to crack with every word I speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, and risk a run-in with the Careers?”  Cas says.  “It was right to leave, Dean.  This isn’t your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but what do we do if that snake was venomous?”  My question comes out harsher than I mean it to.  I’m just so terrified of what could happen that I can’t even think properly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence that follows is pure agony.  Cas doesn’t answer.  He tries his hardest to keep his gaze locked with mine, but his composure is starting to break, as is my own.  He gulps, drops his fraught stare to his knees, and that alone is enough of an answer for me.  I don’t think there’s anything we can do if the snake was venomous.  We don’t have any medicine, and I’m sure the Cornucopia has been completely ransacked by now.  We have nothing.  Nothing that can reverse the effects of something like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel sick.  My stomach tightens, churns so violently and makes my vision spin that I have to grab a nearby tree root to keep myself stable.  Breathing is an arduous challenge.  I can’t believe this is happening.  We shouldn’t have left the tree.  I shouldn’t have turned my back.  I should’ve just stayed by his side the whole time.  Maybe I could’ve seen the snake coming, could’ve fended it off before it attacked.  I could’ve done something to keep this from happening, because now I don’t know how to fix it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe the snake wasn’t venomous.  We still don’t know for sure.  I want to believe with all my might that it wasn’t, but I have a sinking feeling that it won’t be nearly that simple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The people of the Capitol got bored.  Now I’m terrified to think that we may be their source of entertainment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I start when Cas suddenly takes in a trembling breath, using his hands to push himself to a more upright seat.  “Help me up,”  he says with a faint grimace.  “It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.  We should keep looking for a place to stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worry floods through me.  I don’t know if that’s a good idea.  I don’t want him to hurt himself even more.  “Cas, maybe we should—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said help me up!”  he snaps.  His voice is determined, his expression even more so, but the frightened glint in his wide eyes says otherwise.  “I’m not just gonna sit here and wait for something to happen.  I’ll feel better if we keep moving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As afraid of the consequences as I am, I hold onto his outstretched hands and carefully haul him to his feet.  He hardly puts any weight on his left foot—it seems to me like it </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>still hurt—so he leans into my side as we trudge through the dark rainforest.  He hobbles along next to me, a firm grip on my arm.  It looks like every single movement is torturing him even more than the last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stand it anymore.  He’s in too much pain, wincing and muttering whenever he accidentally steps with his left foot.  I take his arm, sling it over my shoulders, lift his weight off the ground as much as I can as my other arm wraps around his middle.  I don’t care how exhausted or drained I am.  I’m walking for the two of us, even if it takes all night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it does.  Sunrise approaches in less than an hour, lighting up the forest with peaceful hues of pink and orange, and we still haven’t found a suitable place to set up camp.  I don’t know how much farther Cas can limp along, even with me doing most of the work.  He’s heavier than he was before.  His breaths are awkward and labored.  Nothing else has happened, though, so despite his fatigue, maybe he’ll be okay.  Maybe the snake wasn’t venomous after all.  Maybe we lucked out.  A flicker of hope starts to spark inside of me as we push past a dense line of shrubbery.  Maybe he’ll be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that weak spark instantly burns out when Cas collapses so abruptly that he slips out from my grasp and falls to the ground.  I thought I was petrified enough until I see him convulsing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reality crumbles to pieces.  Pure terror takes control of me.  I plummet to my knees, down at his side.  He’s still shuddering.  I don’t think he’s conscious.  I don’t know what to do.  I clutch his rigid shoulder, roll him onto his back.  The convulsions worsen.  I grab his face, pat his cheek, desperately say his name because I want him to stop shuddering and wake up and be okay and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart stops when he goes still.  There’s an agonizingly long pause where I almost lose my mind before he sucks in a sharp breath and opens his bright blue eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is relief.  But only some.  An unsteady sigh racks my aching body as I slide my shaking hand away from his face and down to his shoulder.  He only stares up at me with fear and confusion gleaming in his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”  he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s clear now that the snake was venomous.  The realization stabs me in the chest with a dull blade.  And the fact that he doesn’t even remember what just happened to him only makes the pain worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I want to cry.  Tears burn in my eyes.  My throat is so tight that I’m not sure if I can speak, but I have to stay calm.  I have to stay calm for him.  It’s the only thing I can do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, uh…”  My voice cracks.  I try to clear my throat.  “You passed out for a minute.  I think I saw something up ahead, though.  Can you still stand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t see anything.  I just want to give him a reason to stand, or at least attempt to.  I’m afraid I’ll lose it if he can’t or if another fit of terrifying convulsions takes over him before he can try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Cas nods, it takes all of my strength to lift him back to his feet.  He’s weaker than ever.  He can barely stand, even with my help.  A whimper slips past his lips the instant we move forward.  He’s gasping for air, eyes squeezed shut, skin slick with sweat.  He can’t hobble along like he used to.  Those convulsions affected him a lot more than I thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paralyzing dread surges through me.  Thousands upon thousands of harrowing thoughts run rampant through my pounding head.  What am I going to do?  He can’t walk.  I’m losing strength to carry his weight.  That venom is already coursing through his blood, to every part of his body.  There’s no way to tell what kind of horrible damage it’s doing, and how quickly.  And if the convulsions return…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I manage to spot a cluster of vines hanging in the distance once I blink away my whirling vision.  They’re in a strange formation, surrounded by rocks and shrubs and ferns, almost like they’re guarding something.  A wide tree trunk rests a few feet behind them.  That’s odd.  Maybe—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas tenses up in my grasp.  He starts to shudder again, gasping and choking and almost collapsing to the ground, but I hold him up, no matter the difficulty.  A violent cough shakes his shoulders.  An awful sound rattles in his throat as he breathes in, and he chokes.  Another cough.  Saliva dribbles out of his mouth.  When he stops shuddering, he whimpers and snivels and wipes his lips with his sleeve.  He’s getting worse.  This isn’t good.  This is happening too fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We have to make it to those vines.  The formation of everything is too bizarre to be nothing.  Maybe we can hide behind it.  Maybe the vines and ferns will provide enough protection until we can figure out what to do.  There has to be something we can do.  I refuse to sit by and watch that venom torture my district partner any more.  I refuse.  We’ve been through too much, made it too far, to let this happen now.  I can’t let this happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My strength is waning, but I power through.  I lift as much of Cas’ limp weight off the ground as I can and practically drag him through the forest and toward the vine formation.  Every pained whimper that I hear from him breaks off another piece of my racing heart.  But I keep going, keep pulling him along with me, until we reach the curtain of vines.  I reach out with a trembling arm to part them, and the overwhelming relief that floods through me makes my legs wobble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Past the vines, the ground slopes down and leads into another deep, spacious, rocky hollow.  The base of the tree trunk I saw makes up the back wall and closes it off to the outside world.  We’ll be concealed from every side, every angle.  It’s perfect.  It’s absolutely perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a challenge to help Cas down the slope without letting him fall, but we manage, somehow.  He plops to the ground with a soft, agonized groan and leans back against the tree trunk.  He’s shivering, even though the air is sweltering.  His hair is drenched with sweat.  He wraps his arms around himself, hikes his knees up toward his chest, shivers like he’s freezing to death.  I kneel beside him and press the back of my hand to his forehead.  He’s burning up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that we’re hidden in a place we should be safe in, the unbridled terror really starts to settle in.  My heart hammers, hands tremble.  I think adrenaline has replaced the blood roaring through my veins.  What now?  We may have found a secure hollow again, but dangerous venom is still pouring through Cas’ system.  He’s sick.  He already has a fever, and it’s probably only a matter of time before more convulsions kick in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I slide the knapsack off his shoulders and set it aside, then do the same with my own.  I give him the water bottle, tell him to drink.  He does so hesitantly, expression so pained that I can hardly bear to look at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did this to him.  I dragged us away from that campfire last night and deeper into the rainforest.  I turned my back and left him alone in that clearing.  If we would’ve stayed in the tree, or if I would’ve just stayed next to him, none of this would be happening.  He wouldn’t be sick.  He wouldn’t be suffering.  He wouldn’t be dying right in front of my eyes, and knowing there’s not a single thing I can do to help him makes me want to cry and scream and tear apart this godforsaken arena with my bare hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My promise is slipping past my fingertips, and I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do to put the pieces back together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m ripped back to this dire reality when another forceful coughing fit afflicts Cas.  His entire body trembles.  His breaths are so heavy and strained and ragged that I can see his chest rising and falling.  When the fit finally ends, he has to wipe more saliva from his mouth, from his quivering lips.  He looks like he’s on the verge of bursting into tears as he runs a wavering hand through his wet hair, brushing it out of his sickly pale face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I still have to be calm for him.  It won’t do either of us any good if I start losing it.  I try to draw a full breath, try to quell the panic swelling in me.  “Is there anything I can do?”  I ask him, even though I’m afraid I already know the answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas shakes his head.  He looks so defeated, so distraught.  “Look, Dean, I don’t know how much time I have left,”  he struggles to say.  His voice is strangled and weary.  “I know it can’t be long, so—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop,”  I interrupt.  I can’t stand to hear him talk like that, like he’s already given up.  It hurts too much.  “You’re gonna be okay.  Maybe it’s just a bad fever.  Maybe it’ll pass, and that’ll be it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean, I think you and I both know that’s not the case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain shining in his tired bright blue eyes pierces right through me when he finally looks up to meet my gaze.  How is he handling this with such sobriety and pragmatism?  I’m on the brink of mental collapse.  I can’t control my paralyzing thoughts, my burning lungs, my own shivering body.  My throat is so tight that it hurts to even breathe.  He isn’t well.  I know he isn’t.  But maybe...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want more water?”  I ask.  I have to focus on something other than his deteriorating health.  I might break completely.  “Anything to eat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, Cas shakes his head.  His breathing slows, becomes less frantic, but it’s more ragged than ever.  “Listen,”  he says, reaching out to touch my wrist.  Fearful uncertainty passes over his face.  “I, I need to tell you something before it’s too late, before I chicken out and can’t do it.  I know I’m not gonna make it—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you’re gonna be fine.”  I refuse to give up on him.  I refuse to let him die like this.  I can’t.  Not after all we’ve been through.  “You’re gonna be fine, Cas.  Maybe there’s still some medicine left at—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you’re not listening to me!”  he exclaims, his fingers tightening around my wrist.  Tears are glistening in his panic-stricken eyes.  “Please, just listen to me!  Please!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time seems to slow to a painful standstill as his desperate words echo inside my skull, as I helplessly sit here and stare at the terrified face of the boy I tried so hard to keep safe.  My own lip starts to quiver.  I don’t think I can maintain this adamant, level-headed facade anymore.  My aching heart only shatters into tinier and tinier pieces the longer I hold Cas’ anguished gaze.  I don’t want to believe this is real.  I don’t want to believe he’s dying on my watch, because of the mistakes that I made.  I don’t want this to be real.  It can’t be real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I know I can’t keep denying it forever, and if he wants to tell me something, who am I to shut him down when it might be one of the last times I hear his voice?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”  I barely hear myself, barely recognize my own broken voice.  I take his shaking hand in mine, try to swallow the pang in my throat.  “I’m listening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dreadful silence hangs over us as Cas’ stare drops to the ground.  I don’t move.  I’m afraid that if I look away from him for even a second, I’ll lose him.  He draws a trembling breath, looking like he has a thousand different troubling thoughts rampaging through his mind and doesn’t know which ones to say.  “God, I’m so pathetic,”  he finally murmurs with a dry chuckle, a sad smile that’s near-imperceptible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All I can do is shake my head.  If I talk now, with my throbbing, constricted throat, I might burst into tears and never stop.  And I still want to be strong for him.  I don’t want to upset him any more than he already is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first tear slides down Cas’ flushed cheek.  His eyes flit up to meet mine for only a fleeting moment.  He squeezes my hand, lets go of a shuddering sigh.  “I like you, Dean,”  he says.  “A lot more than a friend.  I have for a long time.  I wanted to tell you before we got into this mess, but I just didn’t know how, and now it’s too late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A confusing blend of emotions surges through me.  It’s overwhelming.  I don’t know what to say, how to even react.  I don’t think I know anything.  But then one thing is evident, clear as day through the discombobulating fog in my head, and it’s that when Cas’ teary eyes look up and lock with mine, my heart skips a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another tear streams down his face.  His lip quivers more violently than ever as he struggles to steady his distressed breathing.  “You don’t have to like me back,”  he weeps, voice strained.  “I just wanted to tell you how much you mean to me and how glad I am that we got to spend time together before…”  A sob cuts him off.  He lets go of my hand and clamps his over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and letting a flood of tears trickle down his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is torture.  This is the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, and nothing’s even wrong with me.  But the aching in my chest, the pounding in my head, the pure terror coursing through my blood at the mere thought of losing my district partner is immeasurable.  It hurts so much that I can’t do anything to stop the tears from spilling out of my eyes, the feeble whimpers from slipping past my lips.  This is a nightmare that I can’t wake up from, no matter how desperately I want to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I barely see Cas’ weak smile through my tear-filled gaze.  “Don’t you go crying on me, too,”  he says, but I don’t laugh.  I can’t fathom the idea of joy.  Not now, and probably not ever again.  How am I expected to keep going after this?  What am I supposed to do when he—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I freeze up, stop breathing, when I feel his hand in my hair.  I blink the tears out of my eyes, see a wistful expression on his ashen face as he gently runs his delicate fingers through my disheveled locks.  Brushing it away from my forehead, softly sweeping it back into place.  I don’t move.  Just relish his tender gesture as much as I possibly can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas smiles again, so faintly, as another tear drips off his jaw.  “How is your hair still so soft after all this?”  he murmurs.  I’m sure he meant to lighten the mood.  It only shatters my broken heart more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, gingerly, his hand leaves my hair and trails down the side of my face, down to rest on my cheek.  His skin is clammy, but the comfort of his touch is immense.  I almost can’t suppress a sob when his doleful bright blue eyes meet mine, but I bite my tongue and hold it back.  He looks so tired, so terribly melancholic, and it devastates me to my very core that I can’t do anything to fix it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heartbeat quickens when he slides the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip.  For a split second, I notice his stare flit down to it.  He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.  It’s like the world stops spinning, stops functioning, as he just barely pulls at my lip, glancing between my eyes and my mouth like he can’t decide where to focus his attention, and every passing moment we spend locked in this quiet and confusing and oddly electrifying state only fuels my overwhelming stupefaction more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ eyelids flutter as he tries to draw a full breath.  “Can…”  he says, a borderline whisper, but he trails off, his gaze shining with sorrowful yearning.  I don’t even have a chance to ask him what he meant to say before the voice of Claudius Templesmith suddenly booms through the muggy air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Attention, tributes!  Attention!”  he declares.  He sounds so out of place among the birds and insects of the rainforest.  “I have an important announcement to make.  Many of you will benefit from listening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ hand drifts away from my cheek as I look up, nervous curiosity taking over me, but I make sure to grab it and hold it back down at his side.  I can still feel the ghost of his touch lingering on my lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Cornucopia has just been restocked with essential supplies,”  Claudius goes on.  At this, I perk up.  “This includes but is not limited to food, tools for shelter, and medicine.  Specifically, antivenom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Antivenom.  That one simple word echoes inside my head like a broken record.  Something that can reverse the horrible things that are happening to Cas.  Something that can rid him of the venom pumping through his blood.  Cure him.  Save him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must see the glint in my eyes.  Panic floods his expression as Claudius wishes all of us luck and signs off.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>,”  he says, his wavering voice laced with worry as he grabs my arm.  “Dean, you can’t go.  It’s just a trap.  They’re trying to lure all of you in to a fight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,”  I say.  I know that’s exactly what they’re doing.  Filling the Cornucopia with tempting supplies to bring the desperate ones together, hopefully giving the bloodthirsty audience a good show in the process.  And I’m terrified out of my wits just thinking about it, but I have to go.  I have to get that medicine, that antivenom.  No matter the cost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a fleeting moment, Cas looks relieved.  “So you’re not going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Me picking up the switchblade must be enough of an answer for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!”  he cries.  A new wave of tears wells up in his wide eyes.  “Please, don’t go!  It’s not worth it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas, I can’t just sit here and watch you die,”  I counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t want you to get hurt, or killed.  I don’t want you to die, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pure misery in his tone, the despair on his face, almost convinces me to abandon my reckless mission to get him the medicine he needs, but I can’t give up on it.  I know it could very well get me hurt, or worse, but I can’t afford to think like that right now.  If I don’t get that antivenom, I’ll lose my district partner.  It’s as simple as that, and I cannot let that happen.  I’ve been given an opportunity to save him.  Nothing is going to stop me from taking it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t,”  I promise him, even though I know it might end up being an empty one.  “You need the medicine.  I have to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn to leave before my nerves get the better of me and hold me back, but the sound of Cas’ anguished voice stops me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you doing this?”  he whimpers.  “Why are you risking your life for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something stirs deep inside of me when I look back and meet his forlorn gaze.  I’m not sure what it is.  Fear?  Determination?  Obstinacy?  Probably an overpowering mix of everything.  But I do know that out of all the jumbled emotions rampaging around inside of me, one thing easily conquers the rest, even the terror I feel about braving the Cornucopia, and that’s the desire to keep him safe and alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unsteady breath rattles in my throat.  “Because I made a promise,”  I say.  I don’t know where I’m going with this.  “I promised I would try to protect you.  I promised I would do everything in my power to keep you safe.  I promised I would get you home to your family, and I’m not letting the Capitol’s stupid little ploy for entertainment stop me.  I was already afraid I failed you once before I found you up in that tree.  I refuse to let that happen a second time.  I’m not failing you again, Cas.  I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long, agonizing while, my words hang in the heavy air.  My chest pangs, makes tears burn in my eyes once more.  Cas doesn’t say a single thing.  He just stares back at me, as despairing and miserable as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, when I start to fear he won’t let me leave, or I’ll end up being too scared to go, he nods his head.  “Just come back,”  he murmurs.  There’s so much trust in his feeble voice that it’s almost painful to listen to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t hesitate to nod, too.  “I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I’ll do everything I can to make sure all of my promises are kept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I leave, there’s a twinge in my tight stomach, an impulse so strong and sudden that I can’t ignore it.  My heart racing, unsure of what I’m feeling, I return to his side, gently rest my hand on his cheek, lean over to press my lips to his forehead, just below his hairline.  That all-too-familiar warmth prickles in my chest when I hear him take in a shuddering breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No other words are exchanged between us as I grip the switchblade and force myself to rise to my feet.  If I don’t leave now, someone else might snatch the antivenom I desperately need to get.  I have to go, and I can only hope and pray that I don’t run into anyone along the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I trudge to the top of the slope, the edge of the vines, and spare one last look at Cas as he sits propped up against the back of the tree, pale and feverish and terrified for my safety.  He’s counting on me.  I promised him I would come back.  I can’t let him down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I part the vines and venture out in search of the Cornucopia.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s still just barely past dawn when I leave the hollow and get my bearings.  Golden rays of the rising sun pierce through the canopy and awaken the rainforest around me, bringing forward a new day.  If I’m quick, maybe I can beat some of the other tributes to the Cornucopia and get the supplies I need before they arrive.  It’s early.  It’s possible that most of them were still sleeping or far away from the glade the Games first began in when Claudius made his announcement.  With that in mind to fuel my determination, I start speed walking.</p><p>Journeying into the unknown, potentially certain doom, brings a slew of thoughts to mind.  I wonder how excited and eager the people of the Capitol are about the restocking of the Cornucopia.  Usually I think scenarios like these are called feasts, big events that are sure to lure in the tributes who are desperate for life-saving supplies.  I suppose I’m one of those desperate tributes, aren’t I?  Here I am, well aware that I’m waltzing straight into a trap that will undoubtedly end with bloodshed so I can save my district partner.  I just hope it won’t be my blood that gets spilled.</p><p>Then my mind wanders away from the twisted Capitol citizens and focuses on home.  Whenever feasts happen, almost everyone gathers in the square to watch, especially if their own tributes are still alive.  I wonder if the people of District 9 are gathering there now, watching in fear and apprehension as I make my way to the Cornucopia in search of that vital antivenom.  Is my family there, surrounded by the support of the rest of the district?  Charlie, too?  What about Cas’ family?  I can’t even imagine what they must be going through right now.  So much rests on this one feast.  My life, Cas’ life.  Whatever happens in that glade is going to decide whether or not District 9 has a shot at obtaining new victors.</p><p>But no pressure or anything, right?</p><p>It’s a futile task to ignore my own worries about everything that could go sideways out there.  Instead I let the terrible thoughts come and go, try to redirect my anxious attention to the peaceful rainforest around me.  I haven’t traveled by myself since the beginning of the Games.  It feels wrong without Cas by my side, with only a switchblade and my own inner voice to keep me company.  I hope he’ll be okay in the hollow while I’m out.  It hardly looks like a hollow from the outside, so I’m relying on the fact that no one will stumble across it and find him when he’s weak and unable to defend himself.  I’ll just make sure to get the antivenom and return as fast as I can.</p><p>Thinking about him makes another confusing burst of warmth trickle through my body.  He said he liked me, more than a friend.  I think about all the times I caught him looking at me, all the embraces where he held onto me like he never wanted to let me go.  And the way he dodged Caesar Flickerman’s question about if he had feelings for any of the tributes.  I was probably the answer.  I suppose I had an inkling, deep down in my subconscious, that there was something more to the glint in his eyes whenever we exchanged smiles, spent time together, but nothing could’ve prepared me to hear those intimate words come directly from him in such a grave moment.</p><p>And how do I feel about him?  Truth is, I’m not entirely sure, and trying to piece together my jumbled and messy emotions only confuses me more.  I’ve caught him staring and felt something in return, but I don’t know what.  I feel safer than ever whenever our arms are wrapped around each other, but maybe I just trust him with my life.  I enjoy his company and adore all the conversations we have, but maybe his personality is just compatible with mine.  He’s kind.  He’s caring.  He’s reliable, funny, shy, endearing.</p><p>He’s attractive, too.</p><p>I don’t know what to think anymore.  That warmth in my chest is only growing, overwhelming me and my muddled feelings.  I don’t know if it’s just a deep caring for someone I trust, another piece of my home here with me in this nightmare, or if it’s something more.  I’m skeptical to call it love because I’ve never experienced such a thing.  Not in the romantic sense, anyway.  I’ve only ever known familial love, and what I’m feeling right now certainly isn’t that.  It’s different.  Scarier, more perplexing, but also more electrifying.  I’m not quite sure what it is, and I’ve only ever felt it when we’ve touched, locked eyes, been in close proximity.</p><p>Do I like him, too?</p><p>I reach the line of foliage that separates the rainforest from the open glade where the Cornucopia resides, and everything gets pushed from my mind, everything except the task that lies ahead of me.  I duck down behind a dense fern, the blood roaring in my ears as I carefully scan the clearing.  It doesn’t look like anyone is around.  Not a single soul.  All I can hear is the gurgling of the nearby stream and the birds chirping high up in the trees.  Has no one else come to claim the loot that’s practically spilling out of the golden horn?  Surely I can’t be the only one here, the only one interested by Claudius’ announcement.  This seems too simple, too easy.</p><p>I stay hidden in the foliage for a moment longer, trying to formulate a plan in my racing mind.  There could be other tributes all around me, concealed by the shrubbery like I am, all of us waiting for the other to make the first move and dart out into the glade to retrieve the supplies.  Or, I could be alone.  It’s impossible to tell, and the uncertainty only worsens my growing terror.</p><p>There are silver trunks and boxes and containers piled deep into the mouth of the Cornucopia.  One of them has to hold that precious antivenom.  It doesn’t look like any of them are marked, though, so I’ll have to do some rummaging, and quickly.</p><p>Is there seriously no one else here?  It can’t be that straightforward.  Where’s the entertainment in that?  I mean, it’s fantastic for me, but maybe the Gamemakers really overestimated the needs of the rest of the tributes.  Maybe I’m the only one who’s desperate right now.</p><p>Still, I can’t swallow the fear swelling inside of me.  Anything could happen once I leave the safety of the foliage.  Anything.  But I know I can’t back down, no matter how terrified I am.  If I don’t get that medicine, Cas is going to die.  Plain and simple.  And I can’t die out there, either.  I’m his last hope.  If I die, he dies, and I can’t let that happen.  I made a promise.  I have to get that medicine and stay alive for his sake.</p><p>Which means I have to venture out into the open and forage the Cornucopia, the place where so many tributes meet their ends.</p><p>With a trembling breath, I reach up and hold the little rectangular locket hanging from my neck.  It’s still pleasantly cool to the touch.  I think of the people pictured inside, the people who care about me and are counting on me to make it out of this situation alive.  They believe in me, and I have to believe in myself, too.</p><p>I tuck the switchblade into the lower pocket on my right leg.  The sound of my boots hitting the rocky ground echoes in my ringing ears as I hasten to the mouth of the Cornucopia.  It’s so quiet and desolate now, not like the very first day when the ghastly bloodbath occurred.  But there isn’t a speck of blood, a single trace as to what happened here just shy of a week ago, and it takes every last bit of power I have to push the images of what I saw out of my head.  That’s not my main focus now.  Getting the antivenom is all that matters.</p><p>The first trunk I pry open is full of food.  Helpful, but not my objective.  The next two are teeming with shelter kits, tools to build tents and make fires.  I toss those aside and keep searching.  There’s a small container lying on the ground that looks promising, but when I open it, it’s just soup.  I won’t lie and say I didn’t take a sip before closing the container and discarding it.</p><p>I’m starting to get frustrated and panicky.  I’ve been here for too long.  Someone is bound to come running soon, and I still haven’t found a container of medicine.  Not even something as simple as painkillers, let alone the antivenom I specifically came here for.  Dread courses through me when I think about the possibility of the Gamemakers and Claudius lying to get me to come here and encounter another tribute, but the next container I open up holds a bottle of pills.  Now I find the painkillers.  So where’s that antivenom?</p><p>I don’t get a chance to keep looking.  I’m just popping open the locks to another trunk when I feel the knife press against my throat.</p><p>“Hey there, best friend.”</p><p>My blood chills to ice.  I can’t move, can’t breathe, but I don’t even need to see the owner of the knife to know who that cold voice belongs to.</p><p>A rough hand seizes my shoulder and whips me around.  I come face-to-face with none other than Cresh.  I don’t even have time to process my terror before he sends his fist flying across my jaw.</p><p>Pain shoots through my bones, rattles inside my skull as I stumble backwards.  The taste of blood fills my mouth.  I see him stalking toward me again.  I try to lift my arms in a feeble attempt to block his attack, but he just plants his foot right on my stomach and kicks me back so hard that it knocks all the air out of my lungs.  I can’t suppress a yelp when I collide with a pile of metal containers and tumble to the ground, taking them with me.</p><p>“Man, I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you!”  Cresh chuckles.  He’s coming back, tossing the fallen containers aside to reach me.  I don’t have time to think.  I grab one with shaking hands and hurl it at his chest, try to scramble away before he can get me and hurt me and kill me like he’s wanted to since the beginning.</p><p>It doesn’t work.  Unbridled panic surges through me when Cresh snatches the fabric of my shirt and yanks me to my feet.  He slams me against the hard wall of the Cornucopia, pins me to it with his powerful arms.  The back of my head ricochets off the metal, sends a wave of unbearable agony through my skull, makes my vision spin.  My eyes barely have a second to focus before another punch lands on my nose.</p><p>More pain, and a sickening crunch.  Hot liquid oozes out of my nose, over my lip, into my mouth.  I can’t feel anything other than the pounding headache that worsens with every rapid beat of my heart.</p><p>“You know,”  I hear Cresh say over the shrill screeching in my ears, “it wasn’t very nice of you to run away from me during the bloodbath.  Made me feel like you didn’t want to hang out with me.”</p><p>He punches me again.  I already feel my skin swelling and bruising.</p><p>“That’s for ignoring me,”  he says.  When he lowers his punch and slugs me in the gut, my knees almost give out from underneath me.  “And that was just for fun.”</p><p>His venomous laugh chills me to my very core.  He’s going to kill me.  And he’s going to do it slowly.</p><p>My own terrified cry echoes in the air when he grabs my shoulders and flings me off my feet and to the ground.  Again, I try to scramble away, but he catches me, lifts up my trembling body, rams my head against the corner of a trunk.  Black spots start to dance in the corners of my vision.  A horrible blend of blood and saliva dribbles out of my mouth as I try to stand, try to rise to my feet, but nothing is working.  Nothing feels right.  It’s difficult to move my arms, my legs.  I can’t think properly.  Everything is a foggy mess.</p><p>“You look like you need some help,”  Cresh says.  With the strength of a thousand men, he hauls me upright, only to strike me in the jaw and send me stumbling back to the ground yet again.</p><p>I can barely move anymore.  Agonizing pain shoots through every part of my throbbing, aching body.  Taking even the smallest of breaths hurts.  Wheezes rattle in my tight throat.  Blood leaks from my nose, floods my mouth, trickles over my lips.  I clamber to my hands and knees, attempt to crawl, but to where, I have no idea.  I don’t even make it an inch before Cresh delivers a swift kick to my ribs, and I cry out, collapse to my stomach.  I don’t think there will be any getting up from this one.</p><p>There’s no fight, no energy left in me when he rolls me onto my back.  I can’t do anything when he plants himself on my waist and holds that knife to my throat again, pressing his knees into my sides so I can’t move.  Tears burn in my eyes when I see the ferociously gleeful grin on his face.  He could’ve killed me right off the bat.  Just slit my throat when my back was turned and moved on.  But no, he’s enjoying every second of this.  He wants me to suffer.</p><p>“Now that I have your attention, let’s chat,”  Cresh sneers.  He’s so much heavier than he looks.  “So tell me, Winchester, where’s your boyfriend?  It’s not like you to go anywhere without him.  I was hoping this could be a party of three.”</p><p>I stay silent and force myself to stare right back at his cruel face.  If this is it, if I’m going to die at his hands, then I refuse to break down and give him the satisfaction of an easy win, no matter how petrified I am.  If there’s one thing he can’t have, it’s my dignity.</p><p>My stomach churns when a wicked smirk twists its way onto Cresh’s expression.  “Wait, let me guess,”  he says, taking the cold knife away from my throat to sweep a strand of hair from my forehead.  The sharp blade hovers dangerously close to my eye.  “He’s sick, isn’t he?  That’s why you were here rummaging around like a bull in a china shop.  Looking for medicine, I presume?  How sweet.  Such a shame he’ll never get it.”</p><p>As fast and sudden as lightning, Cresh stabs the knife into the ground just to the side of my head.  He hadn’t meant to go for the kill, but I still jerk away, a yelp escaping my mouth and a rush of paralyzing adrenaline flooding through my veins.  I’m faintly aware of his amused laughter as I realize I’m not dead yet.</p><p>I can’t control my frantic breathing as he grabs a handful of my hair, plucks the knife from the earth, forces my head back against the ground.  “Just checking to make sure you’re still listening to me, Winchester,”  he says.  It’s like he’s trying to tear the hair right out of their follicles.  “Thought you might’ve started to space out and think about your sick little boyfriend.  Does he pull on your hair like this?”</p><p>An uncomfortable pang shoots through my pounding head as he rips at my hair.  A cry threatens to slip out, but I bite my tongue.  I will not give him the satisfaction.  I will not give him the satisfaction.</p><p>“You know, I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment,”  Cresh drawls, letting go of my hair and instead tracing my jawline with the tip of the sharp blade.  “I’ve just been itching to see you bleed, hear you beg for mercy, watch as the light slowly drains from your eyes.  I think you’re gonna be my favorite kill by far.”</p><p>I can’t stop myself from flinching when he nicks my cheek.  I feel a small droplet of blood pooling out of it.</p><p>It’s almost impossible to keep up my defiance when he leans down, close to my face, a murderous glint in his eyes.  “But let’s have some fun first,”  he purrs.  “I’m gonna ask you some more questions.  Every time you don’t answer me, I’m gonna put another cut on that pretty face of yours.  How does that sound?”</p><p>I stay silent again and brace myself for the next wave of pain.  I still wince when he nicks the spot just beneath the other.</p><p>This is it.  This is where it all ends.  He’s going to torture me until I die, and I won’t be able to return to the hollow with the medicine like I promised.</p><p>“You should’ve come here with a weapon, Winchester,”  Cresh says with a shake of his head.  He almost sounds disappointed.  “That would’ve been so much more fun.”</p><p>Reality skids to an abrupt halt around me.  For a fleeting moment, I forget Cresh even has me pinned down.  The switchblade.  I put the switchblade in my pocket before I started searching in the containers.  And I’m still free to move my arms.  If I can reach that pocket without him noticing—</p><p>“I’ll ask again,”  Cresh goes on.  Suddenly I’m not afraid of the knife he has pressed against the side of my face.  Newfound determination courses through me, stimulates my numbed senses.  “Where’s your boyfriend?  If you tell me where he is, I promise I’ll make your death a tiny bit quicker.”</p><p>Silence.  I stare him down, ever so slightly slide my arm toward the pocket on my right leg.  This time I barely even flinch when he cuts open the skin just beside my eye.</p><p>“I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on keeping his location a secret, Winchester,”  Cresh sighs.  My fingers graze the button keeping the pocket shut.  “You’re gonna die here, and my partner and I are gonna find him.  We’re gonna find him, beat him, cut him up until he can’t even cry for help.  But this time, you won’t be around to save him.”</p><p>Rage boils inside of me.  I gather up all the blood and saliva in my mouth and spit it at his face.  I almost feel triumphant when he wipes it off with an outraged growl.</p><p>Then he takes the knife and drives it right through my left palm and into the ground below it.</p><p>The pain is immediate and beyond excruciating.  A long, howling scream rips apart my throat.  My eyes squeeze shut, head tilts back as the sound of my own scream echoes in my ringing ears.  Hot blood gushes out of my punctured hand.  I can’t move it.  It’s pinned to the earth by the knife.  My entire arm has gone numb, consumed by unbearable agony.</p><p>My vision starts to fade.  My breaths grow heavier, more labored.  It’s a challenge to even remember to breathe.  The pain ebbs and flows like a rippling pond.  A feeble moan slips past my lips as my eyelids begin to flutter.  I’m being pulled toward unconsciousness, and I’m not fighting it.  Anything to make this torture stop.</p><p>But I’m not allowed to.  My sluggish heart races and I’m startled back to reality when I feel Cresh—I think it’s Cresh—slap my face.  “Don’t go passing out on me, Winchester,”  he says.  His voice sounds so distant.  “I’m not done talking to you.”</p><p>I struggle to open my eyes, focus my foggy vision on the boy sitting on top of me.  No, I can’t let myself slip under, no matter how desperately my broken body wants to.  I can barely think through the torment that’s overwhelming me, but I have just enough willpower left to remember what I was doing.</p><p>Cresh stabbed the wrong hand.</p><p>I fight to keep myself awake and conscious as I move my right arm back toward the pocket on my leg.  I stare Cresh down the entire time I do so.</p><p>“You’re a lot more stubborn than I thought,”  he says.  “I kind of admire it.  It’ll just make killing you that much more fun.”</p><p>I touch the pocket’s button.  Carefully, quietly, I unclip it.</p><p>Cresh retrieves another knife from a belt on his waist.  This one looks even sharper than the other.  “Now, where were we?”  he muses, his sadistic grin returning.  “Maybe we should cut up your lips next.  No more kissing your boyfriend for you.”</p><p>My trembling fingers wrap around the hilt of the switchblade as Cresh traces my lips with the tip of the knife.  I slide it out of my pocket.</p><p>“Or maybe…”  Cresh pauses, seeming to be deep in thought.  “Maybe I should just kill you now.  I think that’s what I’ll do.”  He lifts the knife away from my face, that horrible grin stretching from ear to ear.  “Any last words, Winchester?”</p><p>No words.  Just a distressed shout.</p><p>I press the button to release the blade and drive it into Cresh’s stomach as hard as I can.</p><p>His scream stops my heart.  He’s stunned, can’t react, blood oozing out of his abdomen and staining his shirt.  I shove him off me and to the ground far away and clamber upright just as I hear someone else yelling his name.</p><p>His district partner.  He must’ve been waiting nearby.</p><p>Panic overwhelms me.  Everything is happening so fast.  Cresh is still writhing on the ground, my switchblade protruding from his stomach, and I hear pounding footsteps approaching.  My left hand is still pinned to the earth.  I can’t move it, can’t get away from the scene before the other boy from District 1 finds me.</p><p>The thought hits me before I have a chance to plan it out.  I grab the hilt of the blade keeping my hand on the ground and pull on it.  Another wave of intolerable agony shoots through me, messes up my vision, makes a pained scream rise out of my burning chest as the knife slides past skin and bone and muscle and finally out into the open.  There’s a ghastly hole in my hand that I try my best to ignore, because I see the other District 1 boy now, and he sees me.</p><p>He’s just raising his spear to throw it when I reel back and hurl the bloodied knife at him.  There’s a sickening thud as it lands in his chest.  The booming of the cannon rattles my shuddering body as he slumps to the ground.</p><p>I’m barely in control of myself anymore.  Reality is spiraling.  Cresh is still alive.  I can hear him.  He’s trying to pull the switchblade out of his stomach, but I reach the blade before he does.  I yank it out, plant myself on his waist as he did to me, and stab it into his chest without even hesitating.</p><p>I’m not sure what happens then.  Some animalistic survival instinct takes over, completely overwhelms me.  Maybe a bit of anger and hatred, too, for everything he did to me.  I stab him again and again and again, long after I hear the cannon signaling his death.  And I don’t stop until I look down and see all the splattered blood that isn’t mine covering my hands.</p><p>I drop the switchblade, hear it clatter to the ground as I stumble backwards, off the motionless body of the boy I just murdered.  The breaths come in hysterical gasps.  Tears pour out of my eyes.  Bile rises in my constricted throat; I try to swallow it down.  I can’t breathe.  Can’t think.  Can’t believe what just happened, what I’ve just done.</p><p>What did I do?</p><p>No time to think.  I’m still alive, somehow.  I have to get out of here before someone else comes running.  I pick up the bloody switchblade with my good hand, wipe it off on my pant leg.  I almost fall over when I clamber to my unsteady feet.  Frantically, my chest on fire and my entire body weak and numb and ready to collapse at any given moment, I rifle through the containers nearest to me.  I still have to find that antivenom.</p><p>There’s a roll of gauze on the ground.  My left hand is all sorts of broken and destroyed, probably beyond repair, and I might not make it back to the hollow if I lose any more blood.  I unroll the bandages with my trembling right hand and wrap it around my left as tightly as I can.  Blood already begins to seep through it, but it’s better.  At least I can’t see the gaping hole anymore.</p><p>As I search, I see a lone sword tucked away in the corner of the Cornucopia.  It isn’t as long as the ones I practiced with during training, but I don’t hesitate to grab it.  I might need it for later.  There’s a clean knife on the ground, too.  I take it for Cas.</p><p>I find the antivenom in the second container I try.  It’s in a small trunk, a syringe filled with blue liquid.  I toss a few strewn bottles of painkillers into the trunk as well as the knife and switchblade, close it up, and hasten out of the mouth of the Cornucopia as fast as my tortured body will allow.  It’s difficult to ignore the two bodies of the boys from District 1 as I stagger out into the open air.</p><p>I plunge to my knees at the edge of the gurgling stream.  I scrub the blood off my right hand, scoop a handful of cold water and rinse the blood from my neck, my face, my nose and mouth.  My nose has stopped bleeding, thankfully, so my mouth is free of that metallic tang, but the cuts from the knife still ooze.  It’s as good as I’m going to get.</p><p>It’s a miracle I’m able to stay on my feet as I blunder through the dense rainforest.  The world spins in violent circles.  I keep running into trees, stumbling over ferns and roots.  My skull hammers with every rapid, heavy beat of my heart, but I don’t slow down.  I can’t.  I have to make it back to the hollow before I collapse.</p><p>Somehow, by some divine blessing, I see the vines come into view through my whirling vision.  I sweep them aside and almost tumble down the slope into the safety of the hollow.  I made it.  I survived.  Just barely, but I still survived.  Relief starts to wash over me.</p><p>Then I notice Cas lying on his side.  He isn’t moving.</p><p>Pure dread seizes me as I drop the trunk and sword and shake his arm.  “Cas?”</p><p>Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.</p><p>This can’t be happening.  “<em> Cas.</em>”  I shake him again.  Tears prick my eyes.  “ <em> Castiel!” </em></p><p>This has to be a dream.  This has to be some cruel, vivid hallucination caused by my head injuries.  There’s no way this is happening.  I never heard another cannon.  He can’t be dead.  He can’t be.  I survived the feast, got him the antivenom, made it back in one piece, just like I promised.  He can’t be—</p><p>I almost jump out of my shoes when he suddenly sucks in a violent breath.  Convulsions shake his body as he flops over onto his back.  It’s the worst fit yet.  Panicked and desperate and hardly controlling my own arms, I fumble with the locks on the trunk and grab the syringe filled with the blue liquid.  I have to press my knee over his elbow to keep his arm steady enough for me to jab the needle into it and squeeze the plunger.  Slowly, the blue liquid disappears into his arm.</p><p>And just like that, as if I’ve injected some magic elixir, the convulsions stop.  Cas goes perfectly still, a long sigh of alleviation spilling out past his parted lips.  His eyes remain closed as I watch his chest rise and fall with slow, blissfully normal breaths.  I think it worked.  The antivenom worked.</p><p>He’s going to be okay.</p><p>The relief—the <em> real </em>relief—is so staggering that I feel the ground start to sway beneath me.  It was all worth it.  The pain, the torture, the anguish.  All of it was beyond worth it.  I barely even notice my own injuries.  None of it matters.  I’m still alive, and Cas is, too.  That’s all I care about.  We’ll deal with the rest of it later.  For now, he needs rest, and so do I.</p><p>Something catches my eye, something lying on the ground and glinting in the light that’s peering through the curtain of vines.  I shift to get a closer look—every muscle in my body screams at the slightest movement—and I see that it’s an opened locket.</p><p>Cas’ opened locket.</p><p>Curiosity gets the better of me.  I pick it up, gaze down at the photos tucked inside, just like mine.  There’s a picture of his parents, wearing the same faint smiles as my parents in my locket.  Then there’s a picture of little Gabriel, and of someone I don’t know.  My heart pangs when I realize it must be his older brother Michael, the one who didn’t survive his Games six years ago.</p><p>And on the right, formatted identically to my locket, is a picture of me.  I barely even recognize myself.  I look so much younger, so much happier, more at peace than I’m sure I do now.</p><p>I gently shut the locket, hold it in my good hand for a moment longer, try to calm my frayed nerves.  Then, without a word, I take the chain of the necklace and clip it back around Cas’ neck.</p><p>I hardly make it to the corner of the hollow before I slump against the rocks and slip into unconsciousness.</p><p>The next time I wake up, it’s early evening.  I was out almost the entire day.  Shadows pool onto the ground, line the walls of the hollow.  The nighttime birds begin their songs.  Insects chirp and buzz.  The hot, muggy air has started to cool off.  The pain in my head is almost unbearable, still throbbing with every heartbeat.  My stiff and sore body aches more than ever.</p><p>But no, none of those things are what roused me.  When I completely come to, when my numb senses struggle to return to normal, my blurry vision focuses on Cas, his concerned expression as he crawls to kneel at my side.</p><p>He’s alive.  He’s awake.  And he looks better and healthier than I’ve ever seen him in the arena.</p><p>It takes a moment for the ringing in my ears to subside.  Then I hear his frantic, worried voice as he asks me what happened, if I’m okay.  He reaches out to touch the cuts on my face that feel crusted with dried blood, but I’m far from troubled about my injuries right now.  All I can concentrate on is how elated I am that he’s okay.</p><p>I practically leap forward, despite the agony, and throw my arms around him.  It’s like all of my pain instantly melts away when I bury my face in his shoulder, clutch the fabric of his shirt, hold him tighter than I ever have before.  He’s so warm.  I can feel his heart beating, and it makes goosebumps prickle along my skin, makes that warmth bubble inside my chest yet again.</p><p>“It’s good to see you, too,”  I hear Cas say with a faint laugh.</p><p>A smile tries to form on my face, but it’s fleeting.  There are so many conflicting emotions, so many confusing feelings, rampaging around inside of me.  The warmth is the strongest it’s ever been.  My heart is pounding so fast that I can’t keep track of its beats anymore.  We’re both still alive.  That’s fantastic.  Of course I’m overjoyed, but I can’t ignore a pang of fearful uncertainty.  What would’ve happened if I had died back in the Cornucopia, or I’d been too late to return to the hollow?  Losing Cas is unimaginable.  I can’t even bear to think about it.  So what is this unfamiliar feeling I was trying so hard to decipher before I arrived at the golden horn?</p><p>I loosen my grip on him, lean back so I can look at his face.  His bright blue eyes meet mine, and it’s like no one else in the world exists except us.  I’m so full of adrenaline that I barely notice my own hand trailing up his back, over his shoulder, up to rest on his cheek.  His eyes widen, just slightly, but he doesn’t move.  I wonder if he can hear how loudly my heart is racing.</p><p>Then, just like before I left, an impulse strikes me, resonates deep in my gut.  It’s so overpowering that I can’t let it go.  I don’t know what it means.  I don’t know what I’m feeling.  I’m scared and tentative and unsure of where it’s taking me, but I have to trust it, because it’s making me lean back in.  Somewhere, in the depths of my subconscious, I know it must be right.</p><p>When his lips touch mine, I know it’s real.  That everything I’ve felt when I was with him was true and genuine.  That the warmth prickling in my chest was not from familial love or even love for a close friend.  That all the stares, shared smiles, longing embraces meant so much more than I initially thought.</p><p>That I like him, too.</p><p>I feel Cas freeze when our lips meet, but it doesn’t take him long to relax, melt into my hand, melt into the kiss that’s making sparks dance over my skin.  He reaches up to drape his fingers over my wrist, rub his thumb along the back of my hand.  My pain doesn’t exist.  I only notice his gentle touch, the electrifying warmth of his lips pressed against my own.</p><p>I have to pull away to catch my breath.  I rest my forehead on his, keep my hand on his cheek.  He’s breathing heavily, too.  I feel his skin flush under my palm.</p><p>Then, I feel him smile, but only just barely.  “Okay, it’s <em> really </em>good to see you,”  he pants.</p><p>I return his smile, so overwhelmed with emotion that I’m not sure how to process any of it.  I stay leaning against his forehead, trying to let everything soak in, trying to let my mind slow down and take in what’s happening.</p><p>I don’t have a chance to think for very long.  Cas’ smile vanishes.  He tightens his grip on my wrist, draws a trembling breath, and his voice is softer and weaker and more desperate than I’ve ever heard it.</p><p>“<em> Don’t stop.</em>”</p><p>My heart skips a beat.  The air gets caught in my throat.  I don’t hesitate to lean back in and press my lips to his.  Heat explodes inside my chest, trickles through my blood.  My hand moves by itself, trailing away from his face and to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss.  I can feel his breath on my cheek.  I can feel every rapid beat of his heart.  He feels like a dream, too blissful for words, and all I can think about are his lips and his smile and his voice and how happy I am that he’s still alive, here with me, kissing me.</p><p>And that makes me realize something, something I never thought I’d experience.  As we sit here, lips pressed together, bodies close, simply grateful for one another’s presence, the realization hits me like a brick wall.  It’s so powerful that I know, without a doubt, it’s real, and I can’t help but smile against his mouth as the sensation washes over me.</p><p>I think I’ve fallen for him.</p><p>I’ve fallen for the boy from the fields.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Thunder rumbles overhead.  Rain gently drums against the rocks above our hollow, a rhythm so soothingly soporific that it’s threatening to make my eyelids grow heavy.  I’m not sure if the rain is acidic this time, or if the Gamemakers deemed it boring and uninteresting and added some other twisted feature to the arena, but it doesn’t matter.  We’re protected here in the hollow, regardless if the rain is lethal or not.  Now we’re free to think of it as relaxing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I merely watch, leaning back against the tree trunk, as Cas uncaps a bottle of painkillers and pours a few pills into his hand.  They’re dark purple, looking like something that probably shouldn’t go in a human body, but it’s Capitol medicine.  If how miraculously that little syringe of antivenom worked is anything to go on, these painkillers might just end up getting rid of my agony overnight.  One can hope, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas returns to my side with the few pills and our water bottle.  I can’t stop my heartbeat from quickening when he meets my eyes and tips the pills into my good hand.  “Thanks,”  I tell him, and I wash the dark purple tablets down with a gulp of water.  Unfortunately, the pain doesn’t dissipate in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A clap of thunder booms through the darkening sky, rattles the ground beneath us, as Cas moves to sit cross-legged in front of me.  Everything feels so much different now.  It’s like his presence is stronger, more magnetic, and the simple act of him sitting across from me is enough to make my adrenaline run rampant.  I can’t meet his gaze without losing my breath.  It just makes me think of his lips, how much I want to kiss them, how closely I want to hold him.  Part of me even starts to forget we’re in the arena at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what he’s doing to me, but I never want it to end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see you brought back some weapons, too,”  Cas remarks, his voice soft, a faint trace of a smile showing on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I spare a glance at the sword lying on the ground, the knife still resting in the opened trunk.  “They were some of the only ones left,”  I say.  “I figured it might be good to have them, just in case we need them.  Don’t think I’ll be going back there any time soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I meant for my comment to be lighthearted, but Cas doesn’t seem to think so.  A worried glimmer shines in his eyes as he looks down at my bandaged hand.  The gauze is dark red with old blood.  I’ve tried not to pay too much attention to it, despite how much it hurts.  The memory of what happened to it is still horrifically fresh in my mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to tell me what happened?”  Cas asks.  I almost miss his words over the rhythmic thrumming of the rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I haven’t uttered a single thing about my little escapade at the Cornucopia.  I’m not sure if I’ll be able to without breaking down or bursting into tears.  The mere thought of it all makes shivers run down my spine, paralyzes me with unbridled dread.  It’s too soon, too recent, too horrible to share right now.  Maybe someday I’ll be able to discuss it, but not now.  Not so soon after I was beaten within an inch of my life.  Surely Cas will understand, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hope he doesn’t notice the shudder in my breath as I struggle to inhale.  “I just ran into some trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Understatement of the century.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas knows it, too.  “Looks like it was a lot more than just a little bit of trouble,”  he says, but his tone has no bite to it.  He reaches out to gently touch the skin beneath the cuts on my face, still crusted with dried blood but thankfully no longer bleeding.  Goosebumps prickle my arms when his fingertips graze my cheek.  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.  Just remember that I’m always willing to listen if you need to get something off your chest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I catch his hand as it drifts down from my face and squeeze it tightly, thanking him without words, showing him how much I appreciate his understanding and compassion.  And I really do.  I don’t know where I’d be without his overwhelming kindness lifting me up whenever I’m down.  I think he gets the message, too, because a warm smile tugs at his lips and flickers in his bright blue eyes.  He squeezes my hand back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should probably get that old blood off your face, though,”  he says after a beat.  “Do you mind if I do it?  I promise I’ll be gentle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go for it,”  I tell him with a feeble smile of my own.  I know he’ll be gentle.  Every touch is.  “I trust you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The storm outside the hollow rages on as Cas pulls down the sleeve of his shirt so he has extra fabric to crumple into a ball.  Then, carefully, he tips the water bottle and lets a thin stream trickle out for just a fleeting moment to wet his sleeve.  I watch as he inches closer to me and sits back on his heels.  I can’t stop my stomach from fluttering when his fingers rest on my jawline, all the while he brings his damp sleeve to the crusted blood on my cheek.  It’s cold, startling, but the warmth I feel when he looks down and meets my eyes makes me forget about it in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so close that I can feel his breath.  He returns his focus to the cuts, gently presses his sleeve against the dried blood to wash it off, but not once do I tear my gaze away from him.  His slightly furrowed brows, knitted together in concentration.  His tenderhearted eyes.  His parted lips.  I always thought he was attractive, but now, it just seems amplified, and I can already feel the adrenaline kicking in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sparks follow his fingertips as he traces them down my jaw and to my chin, tilting my head to the side to get a better angle for the cut by my eye.  Gingerly, he pats the old blood, sweeping it off my skin.  I think he inches closer.  It takes all of my willpower to restrain myself, to not nudge his arm away so I can lean forward and kiss him.  He’s so close.  I can practically feel the heat radiating off him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart is beating out of my chest when Cas finally lowers his hand.  His gaze falls to lock with mine, and it’s like time itself freezes in place.  I barely hear the rain, the thunder, booming outside.  All I hear is my own rapid heartbeat, the blood roaring in my ears.  All I see are those bright blue eyes, those lips that I want to feel against my own.  Nothing else matters.  Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My breaths turn into a heavy, frantic mess when Cas lays both of his hands on my face and starts to lean toward me, slowly, tantalizingly.  I close my eyes and wait for the dreamy feeling of his lips to meet my own, but it doesn’t come.  He stops just before my mouth, his nose brushing my cheek, his fingers pressing into my skin, his labored breaths fanning my lips.  He keeps inching his body closer, so close that he might as well be sitting on my lap, but still, he doesn’t seal that microscopic distance between my mouth and his.  It’s driving me crazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My palm finds his collarbone, the base of his neck.  His heart pounds against my hand.  I clutch the fabric of his shirt, try to pull him toward me, try to bring his lips to mine before my wild breaths make me dizzier than I already am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the anthem blasts through the air, and the adrenaline dissolves into an irksome wave of disappointment when Cas draws back and rises to check the sky.  Although, judging by the look he flashes me as he stands, I think it’s safe to say he’d much rather prefer to continue what we were doing.  Have to check the sky, though.  Have to keep tabs on who’s left to outlive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he trudges up the slope and parts the vines, careful to avoid the raindrops in case they’re still acidic, I find myself gnawing on my lower lip, still feeling the ghost of his warm breaths.  Of course the recap had to start now.  I hardly even think about it and who’s going to be on it until I hear Cas’ shocked voice piercing through the swarm of thoughts in my mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both Cresh and his partner are dead,”  he says, turning back to look at me with wide eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s such a simple statement, but its innocence cuts deep.  Terror seizes me, completely paralyzes me.  Suddenly I’m no longer in the safety of the hollow, but back in the Cornucopia.  Cresh punching me, kicking me.  Cresh pinning me to the earth.  Cresh cutting my face, spearing my hand with a knife.  His horrible cries of pain as I stabbed him, over and over and over until something finally snapped me out of my violent trance, and I realized what I’d done.  How much of a murderer I’d become.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then I feel Cas’ hand on my shoulder, squeezing it tightly, and I’m not being beaten.  I’m not being tortured.  I’m not driving a blade into someone’s chest.  I’m here, with him, in the hollow, and I’m alive.  I see the concerned look on my district partner’s face as he asks me if I’m okay.  There’s a worried glimmer in his eyes; I notice tears stinging my own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words slip out before I can stop them.  I barely recognize my own feeble voice.  “I killed them…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long, agonizing second, Cas doesn’t move.  He blinks, glances between both of my eyes as if he’s going to find the answer in there.  “What?”  he eventually murmurs.  I’m not sure if he didn’t hear me or if he’s just struggling to believe what I said.  I know I still am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed them,”  I repeat.  My voice catches as a tear trickles down my cheek.  I didn’t want to talk about what happened, but here we are.  It’s too late now.  “Both of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A look of shock ignites Cas’ expression.  He falters, his concerned eyes widening, his mouth slightly agape with words he doesn’t have the strength to speak.  Then, with a hesitant hand, he reaches up to gently rest his fingertips beneath the cuts on my face.  “Did they do this to you?”  he asks, a near-whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I manage a nod.  My lip has started to quiver.  Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks in a dangerous stream, and I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to stop them.  That one little sentence, those harmless pictures shining in the sky, have opened the floodgates.  I tried so hard to build a dam around those awful memories, tried so hard to keep the aftermath at bay and forget about it as best as I could, but I suppose there’s no escaping something like this.  No one will forget what I did back there.  Not me.  Not Cas.  Not the Capitol and the rest of Panem.  I’m the boy who, against all odds, killed two Careers from District 1 by himself with only a switchblade and a knife that was stabbed through his hand.  There’s no way that should’ve happened.  There’s no way I should be alive right now.  That just means it’ll be all the more memorable for the Capitol, and all the more traumatizing for me.  No one will ever let this go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to explain myself.  Cas is looking at me like he’s not sure who I am anymore, and I can’t have that.  I can’t bear the thought of it.  “He beat me,”  I say, voice unsteady as the tears begin to flow, as the memories creep back into my racing mind.  “Cut me up.  Stabbed a knife through my hand.”  Cas’ eyes widen in fear, in pure shock.  “And he was about to kill me, but I still had the switchblade.  I killed him.  I killed both of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence that follows is like experiencing the torture of my hand injury all over again.  I shouldn’t have said anything.  Cas must think I’m a monster, a cold-blooded killer.  The glint in his gaze shatters my aching heart into pieces.  He looks like he wants to say something as his hand drifts down from my face, but he can’t bring himself to do it.  That only makes it worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grab his hand, desperately squeeze it, force myself to meet his eyes through my blurry vision.  “Please don’t think any less of me,”  I plead, a feeble whimper.  Every word burns in my throbbing throat.  “I didn’t want to.  I was so scared.  I really didn’t want to, but he was gonna kill me, and I had to get the medicine, and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m hushed when Cas leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my lips.  It lasts but a moment, but when he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine, his presence gentle and warm and reassuring, I feel the relief start to chip away at the pang in my chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did what you had to, and it doesn’t matter to me what it was,”  he tells me, his thumb rubbing tender circles on my tear-stained cheek.  “You saved my life, Dean, and I’m just happy you’re alive, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know why, but his words make the tears fall faster, makes the grief clawing at my heart more insufferable.  It spreads through my blood, to every part of my shivering body, like a painful virus.  Why is he always so nice to me?  I don’t deserve it.  I don’t deserve him.  I try to move my left hand, try to bring it to his cheek to tell him how thankful I am, but the agony is immense.  My palm burns.  It shoots through my entire arm.  I bite on my tongue to suppress a cry, but it does nothing to stifle the fresh flood of tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t move my fingers, Cas,”  I whimper.  I can barely move my whole hand, for that matter, let alone each individual finger.  It’s so much worse than I thought.  The damage is grisly, and I’m terrified to think it might be irreparable.  “What are we supposed to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How are we going to survive this if I only have one fully functional hand?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apprehension shines in Cas’ eyes.  I can see it clear as day, but he tries to hide it with a small smile.  “We’ll figure something out,”  he reassures me.  It’s impossible to miss the weak tremor in his voice.  “We always do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t do anything except hope he’s right.  Hope I don’t bleed out, slowly and miserably.  Hope the wound doesn’t get infected.  Hope we somehow figure out a way to stay safe when only my right hand is able to operate normally.  There’s a lot of hope in the air, but nothing concrete, nothing that can guarantee our continued survival.  And right now, after everything that’s happened, I’m afraid to rely solely on something as intangible as hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult to restrain a shuddering breath when Cas gently presses his lips to my forehead.  He lingers for a moment, the warmth from his touch prickling over my skin like tendrils of electricity, before drawing back and sitting across from me once more.  He takes my right hand in between both of his and doesn’t let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we talk about something else?”  I ask, willing my tears to stop, willing myself to calm down.  I don’t want to think about any of it anymore.  It’s over.  It’s in the past, and as horrible as it was, I have to try to keep moving forward.  What matters now is the present and what we’re going to do next.  I’m only going to put us in danger if I stay frozen in the past, desperately wishing to change something that’s already been done.  I know that.  It’s just too nightmarish to forget.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,”  Cas says with the most comforting smile he can muster up, but he’s distressed.  I know he is.  He’s just trying to conceal it for my sake.  “What were you thinking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything.”  I pause as what I hope will be the final tear slides down my cheek and drips off my jaw.  There are plenty of things to discuss, surely, but nothing comes to mind.  Then, looking at his bright blue eyes and how he’s hardly glanced away from me all evening sparks an idea, and it actually makes me smile.  “How long have you liked me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My smile only widens when a faint tint of pink flushes Cas’ face.  A sheepish grin tugs at his lips as he breathes out a feeble chuckle and lets his gaze drop to the ground.  “A few years, maybe,”  he replies.  I’m quite taken aback by his answer.  “I saw you one day when we were both working in the fields.  We were a couple rows apart, but I still knew that you were easily the cutest boy I’d ever laid my eyes on.  I asked around, found out how funny and caring you were, and then the rest is pretty much history.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few years?”  I repeat, still in disbelief, slightly blushing from his comment about me being cute.  “How come you never talked to me?  I don’t bite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was I supposed to say?”  Cas says with an amused smile.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, I’ve kind of been stalking you for a while because I think you’re cute and interesting.  Want to date?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but laugh.  I’m already beginning to feel better.  “You could’ve just come up to me and started talking about anything,”  I tell him.  “Charlie starts the strangest conversations sometimes.  I wouldn’t have been fazed at all if you did that, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Cas’ smile remains.  Then he gives a faint shake of his head, his eyes flitting down to the ground as his expression diminishes.  “No, I was always too nervous.  You were way out of my league,”  he says.  “You probably still are.  I always overheard girls talking about you and how charming and attractive you were.  I knew there was no way I’d ever have a chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I hate to be so blunt,”  I say in hopes to bring back that smile that I love, “but you were wrong.  It’s unfortunate that all of this couldn’t have happened in a brighter, less deadly scenario, but whatever works, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Warmth prickles in my chest when Cas suddenly lights up, mirth shining in his gaze as it locks with mine.  “Okay, speaking of that, now it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>turn to ask you a question,”  he says.  I’m not sure if I should be afraid or excited by his burst of enthusiasm.  “How long have </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>liked me?  I never thought I’d see the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to stop and ponder, reflect on when I first started noticing those unusual feelings.  I’m positive they’ve been there for a long while, but I never paid too much attention to them until recently.  So when did they actually arise, despite my ignorance toward them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe since that first night we talked, on the rooftop of the Training Center,”  I eventually reply.  “After that conversation and how much time we spent together, I think it just kind of grew and developed from there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remember that night, that blissfully peaceful night up on the roof where the gleaming lights of the Capitol looked like they stretched on for miles and the starry sky above twinkled in response.  That’s where we had our first real conversation, where he opened up to me about his older brother and how terrified he was of ending up the same way.  And that’s where I promised him that everything would be okay, that I would do everything in my power to keep him safe and bring him home to his family, no matter the cost.  There, on that little rooftop in the center of the city, is where we became the inseparable team we are today, and I can’t suppress a frail smile when I think about how far we’ve come since then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m brought back to reality, to the dim and muggy hollow in the middle of a rainforest, when Cas breathes out a laugh.  His cheeks are still ever so slightly tinted pink.  “That feels like such a long time ago,”  he muses.  “Sometimes I forget we were ever in the Capitol at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,”  I sigh.  “It’s only been six days, I think, but it feels like six decades.”  I pause as a disquieting thought washes over me, makes the pang in my chest return.  “Six days ago there were still twenty-four of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I notice Cas’ face fall, but only for a fleeting moment.  He’s quick to hide it and steer the conversation in a different direction.  “We’re in the final eight now,”  he says, his voice as optimistic as possible.  “That’s good, though, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t hesitate to nod.  It’s incredible.  We managed to outlive sixteen other tributes thus far.  I was afraid we wouldn’t even make it halfway.  But I can’t ignore the guilt still pulsing through my veins.  We’re only in the final eight because of what I did at the Cornucopia.  There were ten tributes left at the start of the day.  Now there are only eight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I know Cas is right.  I did what I had to do.  Neither of us would be alive if I hadn’t done what I did back there.  It was either us or the boys from District 1, and it had to be us.  I just wish that realization would make dealing with the aftereffects easier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That means they’ll probably be starting the interviews back home,”  Cas goes on, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the palm of my hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s right.  I’d almost forgotten that’s what happens once the final eight are brought to light.  Friends and families of the remaining tributes are interviewed, and those are broadcast during lulls for the rest of the Games.  I never quite understood why they do that.  Probably to determine more betting odds.  This is when the betting starts to get insane in the Capitol.  Only eight left, and it’s a battle for them to figure out who has the best chances of winning.  It doesn’t matter much to me, but I can’t help but wonder what our odds look like in the eyes of the Capitol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think they’re gonna ask?”  I say, not necessarily expecting an answer.  All I’m imagining is a bunch of Peacekeepers and Capitol officials rounding up our parents, little Sam and Gabriel, Charlie, anyone and everyone who’s close to us and asking them questions about us.  What we’re like, how they think we’re doing, whether or not they believe we’ll survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas lifts his shoulders in a shrug.  “Probably personal things,”  he says.  “You know, since the Capitol loves sticking their nose in other people’s business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s smiling, and I am, too, but a transient flicker of worry sparks inside of me at his words.  “You probably shouldn’t say things like that,”  I tell him.  “The whole country might be listening right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are they gonna do?”  Cas says with a laugh.  “Put me in the arena?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stop my smile from widening at his sudden nerve and valor.  It’s not usually like him to be so outspoken, but I have to admit, I kind of like it.  “When did you get so bold?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heartbeat quickens when he shifts to his knees and starts to lean toward me, his face alight with the faintest trace of a smirk.  “I guess maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses his lips to mine, and my stomach still flutters.  I hold onto his wrist, soaring way beyond cloud nine, as his warm hand cups my cheek and pulls me closer.  I don’t think I’ll ever get over how euphoric he makes me feel.  There’s just something about him that’s so irresistible.  I don’t know what it is, but I can’t get enough of it.  And that is far from a bad thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He draws back when we hear a soft chime echoing through the air, gradually growing louder and louder as the seconds pass.  I barely have time to express my excitement about us receiving another sponsor gift before the container crashes through the curtain of vines and rolls down the slope, tangled up in its silver parachute.  Its song halts as soon as it bounces off Cas’ leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas flashes me a curious glance as he picks up the container and unscrews the lid.  I wonder what we’ve been sent now.  No doubt my little escapade at the Cornucopia attracted some attention, so there’s no saying what could be inside that metal container.  It could be anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing Cas fishes out is another slip of paper, presumably from Bobby.  “A collective gift from almost everyone in District Nine,”  my partner reads, his brows knitted in confusion.  When he looks at me, searching for an answer, I only shrug and motion for him to keep digging through the contents of the container.  Now I’m very interested to see what’s inside if it came from home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Setting the slip of paper down, Cas grabs a small green bottle full of a clear liquid.  Labeled on the glass is the word “Antiseptic.”  Then he picks up a fresh roll of gauze.  Finally, at the bottom of the container rests a portable canister with yet another lid.  Cas unscrews it, and the unmistakable, pungent scent of strong Capitol medicine stings my nose.  It’s a completely medicinal sponsor gift.  This must have cost a fortune, especially so late in the Games.  I can’t believe it.  How in the world did this come from District 9?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas looks like he’s on the verge of exploding with a blend of happiness and bewilderment.  I can only imagine I mirror his expression perfectly.  “Everyone back home must’ve gathered up a ton of money as a group and sent it to Bobby,”  he says breathlessly.  “There’s no way a single sponsor coughed up that much cash to send us medicine.  This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>crazy."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>My chest aches—this time it’s in a good way—when I think about the idea of everyone in District 9 pitching in to send us a gift in the arena.  Not many people have extra money lying around back home.  Almost every cent goes toward what little scraps of food we can purchase.  The fact that most of them were so willing to help us, despite their own worrying financial troubles, warms my heart so much that I think it might melt me.  Our home district must really have faith in us and our ability to make it out of here, and that thought alone is enough to fuel the determination that once coursed through my veins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I notice Cas glancing down at my bandaged hand.  It must be what the medicine is for.  The antiseptics, the fresh roll of gauze, the creamy ointment in the canister.  Neither of us knows what that does, but it’s Capitol medicine.  Surely we’ll just have to smear it on the wound, and it’ll do its job.  I wonder how much of that ghastly wound it will heal, though.  I mean, there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hole </span>
  </em>
  <span>in my hand.  I don’t think any medicine is that magical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lift my left hand onto my lap, wincing as a wave of pain shoots up my arm, and Cas begins to pale at the sight of all the bloodied bandages.  The fabric is so stained with dark crimson that I can barely see the gauze anymore.  I’m terrified to unwrap it and see what kind of horrible damage awaits us underneath, but I know it has to be cleaned and disinfected.  The last thing we need is me getting an infection or losing any more blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can do it,”  I say, watching as the color drains from Cas’ face.  I start to reach for the green bottle of antiseptics, but he stops me and shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,”  he reassures me, although the weak tremor in his voice says otherwise.  “I’ve got it.  Don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not really in a position to argue, nor do I want to.  I stay silent as Cas gingerly takes my left wrist and brings my bandaged hand closer to him.  When he starts to unwrap the gauze, my stomach churns as the fabric peels away from my raw skin and layers of fresher blood.  It makes a nauseating squelching noise, blood and broken flesh and all sorts of gruesome things that I don’t even want to think about sticking to the gauze and dangling off it in strings.  And that isn’t even the worst of it.  He still hasn’t unwrapped to ground zero.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The back of my throat stings with bile when a breeze passes over my hand.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Through </span>
  </em>
  <span>my hand, more like it.  The bloodied gauze crumples to the ground in a useless heap, and the appalling wound is now uncovered and, unfortunately, very visible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks even worse than it did before.  I can almost see right through my palm.  My left hand is a bloody mass of ripped skin, torn muscle, probably some damaged bones and tendons and ligaments.  I try not to stare too closely.  I might burst into tears all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ face is sickly pale.  He clasps a trembling hand over his mouth at the sight, still managing to hold my wrist with his other.  “Oh my God, Dean,”  he murmurs through his fingers.  I think I see tears glistening in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s not much to say.  I try to cast him the most reassuring glance I can muster up, but it’s futile.  Both of us know how horrific this injury is.  There isn’t a point in trying to act like it’s not a big deal.  All I can do is stay still and calm for him as he reaches for the bottle of antiseptics and uncaps it, his shoulders shuddering with a nervous sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stinging agony explodes in my hand and prickles up my arm when Cas tips the bottle and pours a thin stream of the clear liquid over the wound.  I can’t suppress a sharp inhale, a pained grimace.  The antiseptics almost seem to sizzle on my bloodied palm and mutilated skin.  I can feel my pulse in my hand, and with every beat, it brings more and more waves of discomfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,”  Cas says with a flinch.  “I didn’t know it would hurt that much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I manage to tell him it’s okay through gritted teeth and motion for him to keep pouring.  The wound is deep.  It’s probably going to take a lot of antiseptics to be completely free of bacteria or any other disgusting things that might’ve gotten inside before I wrapped it up.  I’m just going to have to tough it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bite down on my right wrist, barely breathing through the surges of intense, throbbing torment that convince me my hand is on fire.  Cas almost looks more pained than I do, though, as he carefully empties the bottle of antiseptics onto the wound that’s growing angrier and angrier by the second.  The skin surrounding it is bright red.  The dried blood is flaking off.  New blood is oozing out.  Not much, but just enough to be concerning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not once does the smarting subside as Cas sets the green bottle down and picks up the metal canister full of that strong-smelling cream.  He unscrews the lid once more and gives it another sniff, his nose wrinkling.  He raises an eyebrow, flashes me a worried yet quizzical look, but I merely nod.  Bobby wouldn’t send us that cream if he knew it wouldn’t help.  It has to do something, but that something will just have to remain a mystery for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Drawing an unsteady breath, looking like he’d much rather be doing anything else, Cas scoops a bit of the cream—now I can see that it’s a soft, velvety pink—onto his fingertips.  Slowly, and hesitantly, he brings it to the outside of the wound and smears it around with a touch so gentle that a mouse might as well be applying it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The initial cold temperature against my hot skin is jarring, but then the relief that follows is almost instantaneous.  It’s pure bliss.  It’s like the cream is swallowing up all the intolerable pain, all the damage that the knife did to my hand, and completely dissolving it as it soaks into my skin.  I don’t know how it’s doing that, but I’m not complaining.  I close my eyes, lean back against the tree trunk, relish the rapturous alleviation that this bizarre cream is giving me.  It’s like the injury doesn’t even exist anymore.  It’s incredible.  The capability of Capitol medicine will never cease to amaze me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even realize I’ve started to doze off until I feel Cas wrapping my hand back up with the fresh roll of gauze.  He tightens the fabric and makes sure it’s secure before dropping his own hands to his lap and heaving a sigh.  He looks drained, his face still ashen as he wipes the leftover cream and traces of my blood off his fingertips, but he persevered.  Yet another reason why I’ve fallen so hard for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I good to go, doctor?”  I tease with a smile.  Without the constant aching pain in my hand, I feel better than ever.  I’m not sure what exactly that cream was or how the Capitol scientists managed to cook up something so powerful, but it seemed to work wonders so far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite Cas’ exhaustion, he prods my arm and returns my smile with one of his own.  “For now,”  he says.  “You might have to come back in for a follow-up appointment if you notice anything that feels wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so overjoyed that I can’t help but laugh.  Most of the pain is gone.  A fresh roll of bandages is wrapped around my hand, and not much blood has seeped through the fabric yet.  It’s far too early to say for sure, but maybe things will turn out all right for me and my injuries.  We have painkillers.  There’s still some cream left in the canister if I end up needing more.  We used the whole bottle of antiseptics, but overall, I don’t think we could’ve lucked out more.  And it’s all thanks to the people back home.  If we manage to make it out of here, I’m going to hug each and every one of them until they can barely breathe.  I hope they know how much they’ve helped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should get some sleep,”  Cas says, startling me back to reality.  “I can stay up for a while.  And don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>about arguing on this one.  You’re the one who’s recovering from worse injuries than I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must’ve noticed me opening my mouth to tell him I could stay up instead.  I can’t stop another fit of laughter from slipping past my lips.  He’s already reading my mind, and we’ve only closely known each other for a couple of weeks.  That’s amazing.  I love it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I don’t argue.  As the rain pours down outside and the thunder continues to rumble, I lean back against the trunk once more and try my best to find a comfortable position to lie in.  Cas watches me, probably to make sure I don’t hurt myself, but looking at the tender glint in his bright blue eyes makes my heart swell.  I reach out and give his hand a squeeze, suddenly overwhelmed with blithesome gratitude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for patching me up,”  I tell him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A warm smile adorns his face as he leans forward and plants a soft kiss on my cheek.  “Thanks for saving my life,”  he says, his voice as benign as his touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in the arena, I fall asleep cheerful.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi. Hello. I just wanted to take a moment to say how incredibly grateful I am for the insane amount of love and support I've received on this story so far. Wednesdays and Saturdays have become my favorite days of my normally crappy weeks because I love putting out new chapters for all of you amazing people. Seriously. Every single time I get a new comment, my mood is boosted for the rest of the day. It makes me ridiculously happy to know that so many of you are enjoying this story that I love so much. It means the world to me and more.</p><p>So thank you so SO much for all the lovely comments and the kudos!! You make a sad girl smile. I love and appreciate every single one of you more than words can describe &lt;3</p><p>Okay, enough sappy stuff. I hope you enjoy the chapter &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Something pulls me into a state of semi-consciousness.  I can feel the heat, the stifling humidity, clinging to my skin.  I can hear birds chirping outside.  It sounds like it’s morning.  Without even thinking, my eyes still glued shut with grogginess, I bring my fingers to my matted hair and sweep it out of my face as I try to wake myself up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I realize I used my left hand, and there isn’t any excruciating pain accompanying the movement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I snap to attention in an instant, my heart beating out of my chest and my eyelids popping open.  I stare down at the gauze wrapped around my hand.  There’s only a speck of blood on the fabric, and it looks old, probably from last night.  I’m barely breathing.  I dare to wiggle my fingers, desperately hoping I wasn’t still dreaming, and I have to bite down on my tongue to suppress a shout of joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can move my fingers again.  And it doesn’t hurt in the slightest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas is sleeping against the rocks, his head lolled to the side.  He must’ve fallen asleep without meaning to.  Practically bursting with excitement and disbelief, I reach out and shake his arm so I can tell him the news.  He jolts awake with a sharp breath, eyes wide in alarm, but when his gaze focuses on me, he relaxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until I tell him I can move my fingers with hardly any pain, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”  he repeats, shock lacing his tone, but an animated smile slowly begins to twist its way onto his face as he hurries to my side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wave my hand, wiggle my fingers again, just to make sure it’s still not a hallucination.  Nothing sends a wave of pain shooting up my arm.  Nothing aches and stings like it did before.  There’s a little bit of stiffness, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.  In fact, the stiffness is quite a warm welcome after the agony from yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hands trembling with eager anticipation, I start to unwrap the gauze.  It might as well be clean, and there’s no way it should be considering the gruesome wound it’s covering up.  Something happened to it during the night.  That cream did something far beyond my expectations, and I want to find out what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I reach the bare skin of my palm, at first I’m puzzled.  There isn’t a bloody mass.  There’s barely any blood at all.  Then the pure astonishment smacks me in the face with the force of a punch when I fully take in what’s in front of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grisly hole in my left hand is completely gone.  In its place is nothing but a thin red scar that’s borderline imperceptible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t believe it.  That wound was massive and inflicted damage that I was sure could never be undone.  The blade had to have broken bones, severed tendons and ligaments, anything that makes a hand functional.  But now I’m staring down at this tiny scar that resides on the skin that was ripped apart and destroyed just yesterday.  I’m convinced that cream was actually magical.  It’s like I have an entirely new hand.  This is insane.  Is this even real?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head.  His mouth agape, he glances between my miraculously intact hand and my own dumbstruck face.  Neither of us speaks.  All ability to talk and form words has abandoned me.  I pinch my arm because surely this has to be a dream, an incredibly tantalizing dream where everything is all right in the world, but nothing happens when I do.  This is all real, and it only makes my exhilaration skyrocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without hesitation, I lunge forward and throw my arms around my district partner, who quickly returns the gesture and holds me so tightly that he squeezes all the air out of my lungs.  Both of us struggle to contain a laugh of unbridled happiness and relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We celebrate my extraordinary recovery by eating the rest of the bread from our very first sponsor.  Not the most spectacular celebration, sure, but I’m too elated to care.  That stale bread might as well be a tiered cake coated with layers upon layers of sweet frosting and sprinkles.  Of course, now I’m just hungry for cake, but I’ll take whatever I can get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t sound like much is happening this morning.  The air is still.  The birds and insects chirp without a care in the world.  Cas looks exhausted from staying up for most of the night, so I tell him he should get some rest.  To my surprise, he doesn’t object, just presses a gentle kiss to my lips before making himself comfortable against the rocks.  I find myself still smiling long after he falls asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how we spend the majority of the day.  Sleeping in one or two hour shifts, sipping on our water, munching on small handfuls of cashews or dried fruit.  By late afternoon, both of us are well rested, and the high of discovering my fixed hand is starting to wear off.  But that definitely doesn’t affect how grateful I am that it even got fixed in the first place.  I don’t think that will ever change.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As afternoon slowly bleeds into early evening, the somber hues of twilight casting shadows on the ground and making rays of the setting sun pierce through the curtain of vines concealing our hollow, I watch as Cas tidies up the strewn objects we left lying around.  He tosses the empty syringe, the bloody and used rolls of gauze, and the green bottle of antiseptics into the trunk that I brought the antivenom back in and closes it up.  He gathers the switchblade, the knife, and the sword and tucks them in the corner of the hollow.  He uncaps one of the bottles of painkillers, pops a couple into his mouth before dumping out a few more and giving them to me.  I’m still sore, but it’s not nearly as bad as yesterday.  I thank him, then wash the purple capsules down with a sip of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as I watch him neaten the bottles of pills, his face rather reposeful and his bright blue eyes glimmering in the rays of light shining through the vines, a thought strikes me.  I’m not sure why it took so long to fight its way to the forefront of my mind, but as it does, I can’t stop a grin from tugging on my lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, so I was thinking,”  I begin.  Cas looks up at the sound of my voice and meets my gaze with a curious glint in his own.  “You know, I guess Cresh was right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the simple act of saying his name sickens me to my core, but I try to ignore it.  Cas, on the other hand, doesn’t.  A worried frown passes over his face at my words, at the mention of the boy who almost killed me.  “What do you mean?”  he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I get right to the point before either of us has a chance to let any sort of negative emotion take over again.  With a growing grin, I gesture between him and me, my heart fluttering inside my chest.  “Boyfriends?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The concern in Cas’ expression vanishes in an instant, leaving a sheepish smile in its wake.  His cheeks redden.  “Oh, so we’re making it official, then?”  he says with a mirthful chuckle, his voice softer than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but chuckle, too.  “This probably isn’t the most ideal time, but...”  I reach out and intertwine our fingers, gently swinging his hand from side to side as blissful exuberance bubbles up inside of me.  “Be mine, Castiel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The colors on his cheeks deepen in hue.  His bashful smile stretching from ear to ear, he drops his gaze to the ground for a fleeting moment before glancing back up to meet mine.  “I’d love to,”  he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach does somersaults when Cas squeezes my hand and starts to lean toward me.  His fingertips grab my chin, tilt my head up.  His smiling lips are just grazing my own when we hear the menacing growling outside our hollow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jumps, eyes suddenly wide with terror as he scrambles back against the tree trunk.  My heart stops, blood chills to ice, as he presses his rigid body into my side, as the growling grows even louder.  It sounds like an animal, without a doubt.  I’ve just never heard anything like it before, and the uncertainty is petrifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think it’s safe to say my lungs quit working altogether when a massive silhouette stalks in front of the curtain of vines, outlined by the rays of setting sunlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve never seen an animal so large, so utterly terrifying, and all I see is its silhouette.  Four sturdy legs.  A long, burly body.  A head that has to be twice the size of mine.  An extensive, slender tail that swishes around threateningly.  And two round, fluffy ears that ironically remind me of the stuffed bear that Sam always sleeps with.  Although, I have a funny feeling that this beast outside is anything but friendly and cuddly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It stops right before the vines.  Paralyzing adrenaline pulses through my veins as it lets out a loud growl, rumbling deep from within its throat.  It must be able to sense that we’re in here.  It’s probably a muttation, a lethal beast created by the Gamemakers, designed to hunt down tributes like us.  The Games were boring today.  This must be their tactic to make things more interesting again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another growl, more sinister.  Cas tries to bite back a terrified whimper.  He’s shivering.  He hasn’t torn his wide-eyed stare away from the ominous silhouette just inches away from the curtain of vines, the only thing separating us from that beast out there.  I try with all my might to flash him a reassuring look, to reach down and take his trembling hand in mine, but it’s pointless.  We’re sitting ducks down here, and both of us know it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our weapons are tucked away in the corner of the hollow.  They’re not that far.  Maybe I can reach them, attempt to defend us from whatever is outside.  Slowly, carefully, I start to stretch my arm out toward them as the growling echoes through the air.  I’m afraid to think it might only be a matter of seconds before it launches into the hollow and attacks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, without warning, the beast backs away from the vines, and its silhouette disappears from sight as it slinks off into the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t dare to let go of my shuddering sigh until I can’t hear the growling anymore.  It left us alone, by some miracle, and we can only hope it doesn’t come back to finish what it started.  We’ll just have to stay extra quiet.  As logical as it may seem, I don’t think leaving the hollow when that thing is stalking around is our best bet.  We’ll be better off hiding down here and out of sight, at least for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the crushing terror gradually lifts from my shoulders, Cas closes his eyes and lets his head slump back against the trunk.  His chest heaves with frantic breaths.  I rub his arm, ask him if he’s okay; I only get a feeble nod in response.  That was far too close for comfort.  I don’t even want to imagine what kind of horrible beast lurked just beyond those vines, or what it could’ve done to us if it decided to attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the evening, thankfully, flies by without any more close calls or monstrous animals.  The nightly death recap comes and goes—no tributes in the sky today—and it isn’t long before total darkness falls.  Cas is still shaken up by the incident from earlier, so he offers to take the first watch while I try to sleep.  I tell him to wake me in a few hours, give his hand a comforting squeeze, and will myself to get some rest, despite the images of that beast’s ominous silhouette plaguing my mind.  I can’t forget about it, no matter how hard I try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I’m not very surprised when my dreams are haunted by that unknown animal.  In place of its silhouette, I see the foaming snout, the jagged teeth, of a rabid dog.  Its fur is torn and matted with old blood.  Its eyes are two different colors, and the deranged glint in them chills me to the bone.  It’s staring me down, sizing me up, and then it lifts its twitching head back and lets out a hair-raising howl, one that echoes through the cold air.  I want to run, but I’m frozen in place.  I can’t move.  I try to brace myself for the agony when the beast starts to charge, but it doesn’t come.  The beast sprints right past me and leaps at something behind me.  When I hear the screams, I know it’s Cas.  I hear the beast’s claws ripping him to shreds.  I hear the harrowing sounds of his pained shrieks drilling into my skull.  I hear those screams fade and be replaced by a gurgling noise, the sound of him choking on his own blood.  I still can’t move, can’t do anything to help him, and being forced to listen to him suffer is so much worse than anything Cresh ever did to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally waking up from that nightmare is a blessing.  A cold sweat blankets my skin as I jolt awake and see that I’m in the shadowed hollow, safe and sound in the silence of nighttime.  I’m trembling, sucking in shallow breaths, because I can’t get those awful screams out of my head.  They’re still echoing in my ears like a broken record, like they were actually real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I spot Cas sitting a few feet away, looking at me with a concerned glimmer in his eyes.  He’s still intact.  He’s okay.  Nothing happened to him.  The dream wasn’t real.  The beast left us alone, and even if it comes back, I will not let it get to him.  I can’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t give him a chance to open his mouth and ask if I’m okay.  I hold my shaking arm out and wave him over.  He doesn’t hesitate to nestle up next to me, his head in the crook of my neck, one arm wrapped around mine, one hand gently resting on my chest, just like before.  The solace of his weight pressed against me seems to draw out all the tension in my sore muscles in an instant.  He’s still here with me.  I take a deep breath, try to focus on the comforting warmth radiating off his body, and lean my head on top of his.  Slowly, I start to calm down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cannon fires just as dawn approaches.  Cas jumps up and out of slumber, his wide-eyed stare immediately fixing on the curtain of vines, but there’s nothing there.  As the boom echoes through the serene morning air, both of us are now quite fully awake.  I can’t help but wonder who the cannon was for as Cas rubs his face and I try to stretch out my stiff joints.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seven tributes left.  Us included.  Only five left to outlive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now, I’m too afraid to venture out of the hollow in fear of running into that beast.  It’s been hours, but it could still very well be stalking around in search of prey.  Who knows?  Maybe that’s what happened to the boy who died mere moments ago.  Maybe the beast got him.  I just know that I don’t want to meet whatever killed him, regardless if it was another tribute or an animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re running low on water.  A few more sips between the two of us, and then the bottle will be empty.  My stomach tightens when I think about having to leave to replenish our supply, but we should be able to make it through until tomorrow without much hydration, especially if all we’re doing is sitting around in the shade of the hollow.  Besides, giving that unknown beast an extra day to leave the area or the arena altogether eases some of my growing nerves.  If it truly is a muttation, then I doubt it will stick around for that long.  Usually they’re sent into the arena to scare the tributes, maybe even take out some of them, but I’ve never seen one that continuously hunts for days on end.  We should be safe from it tomorrow.  In theory, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the tropical sun rises above the horizon, heating the air and filling it with sweltering humidity, I’m slightly startled when Cas presses a long, lingering kiss to my lips.  It’s different from the others, much more prolonged and ardent and blissfully affectionate, and when he finally draws back and rests his forehead against mine, I find myself more out of breath than I’ve ever been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that for?”  I ask with a smile.  Whatever it was, I want more of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your bad dream from last night,”  Cas replies.  For a fleeting moment, his expression is solemn.  Then a smile of his own lights up his face and shimmers in his eyes, and he delicately runs his fingertips along the skin of my jaw.  “And because I like kissing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heartbeat quickens.  “Well, who am I to stop you from pursuing your hobbies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We share a breathy laugh, and he kisses me again.  I’m not sure how, but every kiss always feels like the very first.  The spark in the air never wanes.  The electricity dancing along my skin never dissipates.  I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of his lips, his gentle touch, his soft voice, him in general.  I never imagined I’d feel this way about anybody, let alone the person I’m trapped in the Hunger Games with, but I suppose, in a weird way, fighting to stay alive and keep each other safe brought us closer together.  Now I can’t even picture myself with anyone but Cas.  We’ve faced so many adversities, suffered through so many terrible things, and we’re still closer than ever.  I’d like to think there’s a bond between us that can never be broken, formed and made indestructible by the everlasting desire to keep one another safe.  We’ve been a team since the beginning, and we’ll be a team until the very end.  Not a single thing in this world could ever convince me to abandon him.  Not one thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel.  My boyfriend.  Even the mere thought of that word makes my cheeks flush and my stomach flutter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The remainder of the exceptionally warm day is rather uneventful.  No more cannons fire.  No more terrifying beasts come sneaking around our hollow.  It’s just us, the birds, and the insects.  Cas and I pass the time by telling each other stories about when we were younger.  Stories about us and our families.  It’s a bit painful to discuss at times because of how much we miss them, but I think it’s good for us.  Keeps our minds off the dangers that could be lurking just beyond the curtain of vines, anyway.  Besides, after hearing so many anecdotes about his little brother Gabriel and his loving parents, I start to feel like I’ve known him for years.  It’s nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By late afternoon, much to my dismay, I’m feeling sick.  It hurts to move my eyes or my head too fast.  My limbs are heavy and sluggish.  I’m not freezing, thankfully, so it’s unlikely that I have a fever, but being so under the weather is quite bothersome.  I’m hoping it’s just passing, and I’ll feel better in the morning.  It’s probably from all the stress my body and I have endured.  That takes its toll, and it can be unpleasant when it does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We receive another sponsor gift right as dusk falls.  Neither of us expects it, so when the metal container drifts through the vines and rolls down the slope, it’s somewhat startling, to say the least.  Still, Cas eagerly untwists the cap, and the delectable aroma of chicken permeates the air in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chicken noodle soup.  Two substantial servings of it.  How wonderfully convenient.  Someone in the Capitol sure has taken a liking to us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never gave soup enough credit before the Games.  Now it’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.  The broth is so soothingly hot.  The chunks of chicken are so juicy and tender.  The noodles are superb.  After just a few bites, a few sips of the broth, I already feel rejuvenated, especially after eating all that plain bread, those little cashews, the packaged products.  This is like a homemade meal, and it’s absolutely divine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As tempting as it is to just guzzle down the entire container without coming up for a breath, Cas and I manage to restrain ourselves and only eat half.  Saving the rest for when we’re really starving makes sense in my mind.  Plus, even though we only ate what would be an incredibly small amount for anyone else, I’m already full.  We’ve gone days without a proper meal.  Just meager snack foods here and there.  Our stomachs have shrunk.  I don’t think I could even finish that whole container of chicken noodle soup without risking it coming right back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, we twist the caps onto each of our containers and tighten it to trap in as much heat as possible, then set it aside for later.  Night is close to falling now.  We ran out of water around midday, so it looks like we’ll have to search for more tomorrow.  As much as that thought worries me, I doubt it would be a smart idea to try to last out the remainder of the Games without any hydration.  There are still five tributes left who want us dead.  We’ll need to be as alert as possible, and having another repeat of what happened to me at the start of the Games is not what I would call </span>
  <em>
    <span>alert.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy who died at dawn was from District 8.  That’s another district out of the picture.  That just leaves one from 7 and the pairs from 2 and 10.  If I’m remembering correctly, anyway.  It’s rather difficult to forget the faces of the people who have been murdered in the same arena as you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a quiet night.  Hardly any birds sing.  Only the buzzing of the insects keeps us company as Cas snuggles up next to me.  He falls asleep in a matter of moments.  While he rests, the weight of his head pressing into my shoulder, my mind begins to wander.  We’re so close to the end of the Games.  What are the chances that we actually make it out of here alive?  At first, before we were thrown in here, I believed them to be high.  Probably a bit too high, now that I look back on my hopeful optimism.  Then I sunk into a pit of dread and despair once the Games started and after everything that happened.  But now?  There are only seven of us left out of the twenty-four we started with.  There’s just one boy from District 7 who is, without a doubt, scared and alone and possibly defenseless without his partner.  And what are the odds that the pairs from Districts 2 and 10 take each other down in a grand fight or at least weaken one another in the process?  Both Cas and I are decently fed and rested, and we have weapons.  What are the odds that we actually do this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost everyone from District 9 pitched in to send us a gift, too, one that saved the hand I thought was irreparable.  I don’t think they would cough up so much money if they didn’t believe we had a good chance.  Perhaps they know something we don’t.  People watching the Games see every tribute, after all.  Maybe the boy from 7 is too weak or scared to pick fights and won’t last much longer by himself.  Maybe the boys from 2 or the boys from 10 are flirting with death by starvation or dehydration and don’t pose a threat to us.  Maybe if Cas and I find water and quickly return to the hollow to hide out, maybe everything will unfold before us.  Maybe we’ll win without having to face off against another tribute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe we’ll really get to go home and see our families again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t suppress a smile as I sling my arm around Cas’ shoulders, holding him close as he sleeps.  I know for a fact that I wouldn’t be able to do this without him.  As terrible as it was for him to be reaped and for me to have to volunteer in Sam’s place, maybe, in some sick, twisted way, it was all according to the universe’s plan.  Both of us helping each other survive.  Both of us keeping one another calm and sane.  Bringing us closer together.  Giving District 9 an opportunity to have a new pair of victors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our circumstances are still dire and harrowing, though.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m just trying to look at the positives, I suppose.  What else can I do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas wakes in a few hours without me having to rouse him.  My turn to rest.  I fall asleep in good spirits after pondering our chances of winning, and thankfully, no terrifying dreams haunt me tonight.  It’s just pure, restful slumber, and when the morning sun peers through the vines and shines on my face, gently pulling me from my sleep, I awake feeling better than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although, the carefree sensation doesn’t stick around for very long.  We still have to find water today or risk an awful bout of dehydration in due time.  That means we have to leave the safety and security of our hollow, which is the last thing I want to do when we’re so close to surviving the Games.  But I know we need water.  I don’t want to experience the effects of severe dehydration again, and I certainly don’t want Cas to.  We’ll just have to be swift.  That’s something we can do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I rise to my feet, I swallow a few more painkillers.  There isn’t any water to wash them down, but I manage.  I haven’t stood or walked for days now.  I’m almost afraid to see what happens when I finally do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just some stiffness and soreness, apparently.  I have to bite back a groan of pain as discomfort pulses through my aching body, but it goes away after a short while.  I don’t even want to imagine how much I’d be hurting right now if I hadn’t snagged those painkillers before I left the Cornucopia.  I probably wouldn’t be able to function.  At least I can stand and move around without an unbearable amount of agony.  I have that going for me, I guess, especially after how much of a beating I took.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrenaline pours through my blood as Cas and I pack up our knapsacks and grab our respective weapons.  I tuck the switchblade back in the right pocket on my leg, just in case.  That little thing saved my life last time.  Who knows if I’ll need to use it like that again?  It’s better to be safe than sorry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the top of the slope, before we part the vines and venture out, I stop to press my lips to Cas’ in an attempt to soothe my nerves, and maybe his, too.  Just a quick journey to find a nearby stream and refill our water bottle, and then we’ll come right back.  Simple as that.  We can do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I just wish that confidence would ease the worry gnawing on my stomach like a hungry animal.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“The ground is somewhat damp around here, and I don’t think it’s just from the rain,”  I muse, slowly spinning in circles, trying to see where the dampness continues and where it starts to dry out.  That should help us figure out where to travel first.  Then I spot a path curving around the side of our hollow.  The ground is dark with moisture and ever so slightly begins to slope downward.  There has to be a flow of water somewhere down there.  “Come on.  This way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas stays glued to my side as we carefully traverse the uneven terrain.  It’s not nearly as sweltering as it was yesterday, but the dense humidity still clings to me, still makes beads of sweat dot my hairline as we trek along the forest floor.  It’s been a few days since I’ve been outside the hollow.  The coolness of the rocks and the curtain of vines blocked out most of the intolerable heat, but now we’re right back in the thick of it.  Hopefully we’ll find water soon.  I already miss the endurable temperature of our hideout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There aren’t any signs of another tribute anywhere.  The earth looks undisturbed.  No footprints, turned up leaves or twigs, anything.  No abandoned food wrappers.  No torn pieces of clothing.  No blood or weapons.  All excellent and reassuring indications.  We might be the only ones to have traveled through this entire area.  That should certainly make completing our mission easier, just as long as we stick to this region.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground suddenly cuts off, forming a ridge.  I stumble over my feet and very nearly fall, but it’s not a steep drop.  Just a few inches.  I manage to regain my balance on the lower level of terrain before my face hits the dirt, and I can’t help but chuckle at my clumsiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Watch your step,”  I say as Cas approaches the little ridge.  “The ground is tricky around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hold my hand out for him to grab onto.  He takes it without hesitation, his fingers clamped around my palm as he hops off the ridge and onto the lower ground with me.  His touch lingers for a moment longer before he lets go of my hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An endearing smile lights up his face.  “Aren’t you a gentleman,”  he teases.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mirthful shimmer in his eyes makes butterflies erupt in my stomach.  “Just looking out for my boyfriend,”  I say, reaching out to lightly poke his arm, then his ribs.  He retaliates with a yelp of surprise and amusement and gives me a lighthearted push.  A soft shade of pink tints his cheeks as his shy smile widens, and we continue our journey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The earth keeps sloping downward at a slight, almost indiscernible angle.  The soil is still damp, though, and it’s only getting darker and darker the farther we walk.  It’s possible that a stream flowed through here at some point, so maybe at the bottom, there will be a pond or something else of the like.  That makes sense, right?  Water can’t flow upwards.  There has to be something at the base of this slope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The trees are getting closer together.  The foliage is thickening.  I use the sword to slash away the overgrown ferns, the plants that might cut or scratch us if we’re not careful.  It’s even hotter in this section of the rainforest, no doubt due to the density of the trees and shrubs, but still, we keep pushing forward.  It’s too late to turn back now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t long before Cas starts trailing behind, slowing his pace.  I turn around to look at him, to make sure he’s okay, but I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking anymore.  “How are you holding up, Cas?”  I ask, shuffling backwards as cautiously as I can.  “You look a little gl—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence.  I walk right into a big bulky spider web strung up between two trees, and it envelops my entire body in a hug I’ve never wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t think I’ve ever been more panicked, and that’s saying something.  Pure terror consumes me as the spindly web attaches itself to every part of me.  I frantically try to swat it off, a chain of alarmed hollers slipping past my lips, but it won’t come off.  None of it will.  It’s like it’s stuck, welded onto my clothes, and that only makes me want to flail my limbs harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Get it off!”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>I shriek.  I would be embarrassed by the squeakiness of my voice, but there are more pressing matters at hand now.  Like a giant spider web blanketing my body.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Get it off!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how, but I manage to swat off a layer of the disgusting web.  I shake my arm, make it drift to the ground and away from me, then start to pick off the rest of it.  When I finally get most of the cursed blanket off my body and the ringing in my ears begins to subside, I hear Cas laughing.  Part of me wants to be mad because that was easily one of the most traumatizing things I’ve ever experienced—I still feel like the spindly web is tickling my skin—but how can I?  I’m sure I looked ridiculous flailing around like that, screeching at the top of my lungs.  I would probably laugh if I saw someone doing that, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean Winchester is afraid of spiders,”  Cas remarks when he calms down enough to speak.  His face is still alight with an amused grin.  “Never would’ve guessed it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re creepy!”  I say.  I shudder at the thought of the web’s owner crawling along my back.  That was what scared me the most about having that thing wrapped around me.  “How can you not be afraid of them?  Nothing should have more than four legs!  Eight is definitely crossing the line!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say I wasn’t afraid of them, too,”  Cas chuckles, stepping forward to give my arm a pat.  “I just never knew that someone so strong and tough would get so freaked out by something like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes suddenly go wide.  His face falls.  “It’s on your shoulder,”  he murmurs gravely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To say I almost jump right out of my shoes is an understatement.  Another shriek escapes my mouth before I can stop it, and I’m at least five feet to the right in a split second, frantically slapping my shoulder and thrashing around to get that vile creature off me.  I only realize that Cas was joking when I hear him laughing again, and he’s doubled over like it’s the funniest thing in the world.  Still, I can’t bring myself to be angry with him.  He’s having fun, and I adore seeing him so happy.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh this hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Satisfied with yourself?”  I say with a sigh, but I’m smiling, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very,”  Cas says in between fits of laughter.  When he eventually stands back up, he has to wipe a tear from his eye.  “Sorry.  I couldn’t help it.  I saw an opportunity, and I took it.  I hope you’re not mad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,”  I reassure him.  Only Cas could pull a prank on someone and then feel terrible about it afterwards.  He’s too sweet.  “Just don’t do it again, maybe.  You almost gave me a heart attack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we don’t want that.”  His endearing smile makes a return as he rubs my arm and plants a gentle kiss on my cheek.  Everything’s all right now.  No more spindly web attached to my body.  No insect from hell crawling around on me.  Cas had a good laugh, one that he desperately needed, and I’m just glad he was able to find some humor in the grim situation we’re trapped in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m still picking off tiny pieces of web that managed to cling to the fabric of my clothes as we keep walking.  In a matter of minutes, we come across a large ravel of tree roots that rise up past our knees.  We can go around it with ease, but before I know it, Cas is climbing up on top of it.  Probably to get a better vantage point of the surrounding area, I presume.  Maybe he’ll be able to spot that pond we’re searching for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See anything?”  I ask him as he stands on the sturdy mass of roots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Cas is silent.  He squints his eyes, leans forward, but then he shakes his head.  “Not much,”  he replies.  “There’s too much foliage.  All I see is green.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just our luck.  At this rate, we might as well be stumbling around in the dark, swimming through a sea of dense foliage.  I had such high hopes for this path, considering how damp the soil was, but maybe I was mistaken.  Either that, or there really is a pond somewhere down there, shrouded by the never-ending abundance of greenery.  So do we return to the hollow empty-handed, or do we keep pushing?  I’m at a loss.  I’m not sure what would be the smartest option anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas starts to say something else, asking what we should do, but I’m suddenly much more preoccupied by the thing I’ve just noticed on the ground in front of the ravel of roots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a footprint—no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>paw print</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and it has to be at least three times the size of my own hand.  The dirt is sunken and torn up.  The tracks look fresh.  Almost like whatever massive beast made that print came through here recently, and it could still be around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel my blood chilling to ice when my racing mind makes the connection.  The beast from the other day, the one that lurked just outside our hollow.  What if this terrifying paw print belongs to it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach churns.  My vision starts to spin as I hurry to the roots, urge Cas to get down with an uncontrollable tremor in my voice.  Before he even has a chance to ask what’s wrong, I point down at the monstrous paw print embedded in the dirt.  The horrified look on his paling face is as clear as day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We have to get back to the hollow.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Before that thing can find us and hunt us down like prey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never anticipated that it would still be stalking around.  I thought it would be long gone, plucked out of the arena or dismantled by the Gamemakers since it didn’t seem to cause as much mayhem as they wanted it to.  Why is it still here, and following us around, no less?  We already narrowly avoided it once.  This hardly seems fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless this was the Gamemakers’ plan all along.  Scare us while we were in the hollow, then keep the creature in the surrounding areas so that if we eventually left, we’d run into it.  Of course.  I bet they’re snickering to themselves right now as they watch us make haste to return to the safety of our hideout as quickly and quietly as possible.  I bet they planned this whole thing out, and we’re playing right into their sadistic hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was a mistake.  We shouldn’t have come out here.  We should’ve just stayed in the hollow and taken our chances without water.  Maybe Bobby could’ve sent us some if worst came to worst.  Now we’re stranded in the middle of a dense rainforest, a long walk away from a sense of security, and we might have a bloodthirsty beast watching us from the foliage, just waiting for the right moment to strike.  It’s like my nightmare is coming to life before my very eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stop dead in my tracks when I hear a branch snapping in the midst of the sea of greenery.  Cas sucks in a sharp breath, his hand clutching my arm, his terrified eyes stretched wide.  I don’t see anything moving.  No shrubs rustling.  No flashes of color among the vegetation.  But that doesn’t make me any less petrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something is out there, and it’s close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When no more sounds echo through the air, I take Cas’ shaking hand in mine and pull him away from the snapping branch and back in the direction in which we came from.  All of my senses are on high alert.  We might be able to make it back to the hollow, but only if we’re silent.  And I refuse to let what happened in that awful dream happen in real life, too.  I refuse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another branch snaps, the noise shrill and unnerving.  I barely notice Cas’ fingers digging into my arm.  This branch was much closer.  It’s following us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I hear the sinister growling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shivers ripple down my spine.  It sounds like it’s all around us.  What are we supposed to do?  Where are we supposed to go?  There might be a dozen of those beasts completely surrounding us, for all we know.  I can’t see past the abundant walls of foliage.  There could be one standing right in front of us, and we would have no idea until it lunged.  That thought is paralyzing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?”  Cas’ voice is a frightened whimper.  I almost don’t hear it over the blood roaring in my ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just turning my head to look at him when the shrubs begin to part, and the growling beast slinks out into the open.  This time, though, it’s not a rabid dog, but what appears to be a massive feline.  Piercing tawny eyes seem to stare right through me, leaving a gaping hole in its wake.  Its thick coat of fur is golden, speckled with black spots.  It’s as big as me, if not bigger.  But what’s most terrifying is its sharp fangs.  Its lips curl up into a nasty snarl, revealing its horrid yellow teeth, and if I’m not mistaken, I think I see faint traces of blood soaked into the sharpest fangs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It steps toward us with its enormous paw.  Time slows to a painful standstill.  It’s advancing, chilling growls rumbling in its throat.  It’s gearing up to attack.  Do we turn and run?  Do we attempt to fight it off?  There’s only one of them.  Maybe we could fight it, because I have a sneaking suspicion that outrunning this colossal beast of nightmares might be next to impossible.  There’s no doubt it’s a lot faster than us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, fighting it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> my plan until I see another one creeping out of the foliage, its nose wrinkled with a threatening snarl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking on two is out of the question.  I’m not risking either us getting hurt, or worse.  It’s not worth it.  Before I even know what I’m doing, pure adrenaline seizing control of my actions, I nudge Cas with my elbow, ever so slowly start to step backwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Run,”  I tell him.  I hardly recognize my own voice.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Run!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of us whirl around and bolt through the forest just as the beasts let out a horrifying growl.  I hear their pounding footsteps behind us, but I don’t dare turn around.  I run faster than I’ve ever run, and I don’t look back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m quicker than Cas; I make sure to stay behind him.  I’m not letting him out of my sight.  My lungs burn, heart hammers, as my feet slam into the earth.  The world whizzes by in a blur of color.  I think the beasts are getting closer.  I wouldn’t know.  My attention is fixed on getting as far away from where we first encountered them as possible, and only that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It happens so abruptly that it takes an agonizing second for my brain to register what I’m seeing.  The foliage to our left rustles, and with a dreadful roar, one of the beasts launches out of the bushes and tackles Cas to the ground.  His yelp of fear and surprise as the massive feline pins him down and snarls in his face is like a dull knife driving into my chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An overwhelming amalgamation of petrified emotions floods through me.  I shout his name, scramble to tighten my grip on the sword I’ve somehow managed to hold onto.  The unbridled terror must make me black out a small amount because the next thing I know, the blade is lodged in the beast’s throat.  Dark red blood pools from the wound, and it stumbles off Cas with a pained roar and drops to the ground.  Unmoving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I would be sickened by the sight and the horrible feeling of pulling the blade from its neck, but there’s no time.  More of its friends are coming.  We have to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas is barely breathing.  I think I stopped a number of minutes ago.  His face is panic-stricken and sickly ashen as I grab his hand and help him clamber to his feet.  A chorus of furious growls echoes through the air all around us, but we don’t give them a chance to catch up.  I give Cas a light push to get him moving, to unfreeze him from his paralyzed trance, and then we take off through the bushes once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground starts to slope down again.  The incline makes us pick up even more speed, which is both helpful and absolutely terrifying.  I’m barely in control of my legs.  We might as well be flying down the slope.  I have to jump to avoid a tangle of tree roots, and I get so much air that I almost trip, crash to the ground, roll the rest of the way down the little hill.  But I keep my balance, and I keep barreling forward.  I think we’re losing the beasts in the dense shrubbery.  We can’t stop now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I risk glancing over my shoulder to see if we’re still being chased.  It doesn’t look like they’re right on our tails, but those ominous growls and snarls never fade.  They’re back there all right, slinking through the foliage and pursuing us from where we can’t see them.  We’re being hunted.  We’re just lunch for those things, and they won’t give up a good chase that easily.  I don’t slow my pace for even a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confusion washes over me when a different sound rings in my ears.  It’s not one of the beasts.  I’m not sure if it’s even an animal.  It’s a continuous noise I’ve never heard before, deep and rumbling and boomy, so much so that I can feel it vibrating in my chest, and it’s coming from up ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wheel around just in time to see the ground drop off.  I skid to an abrupt halt, snake my arm around Cas’ abdomen and pull him back as he stumbles dangerously close to the edge of the precipice.  Pebbles tumble off and down into the immense abyss, disturbed by his frantic footing, and I feel my stomach plummet to the ground when I dare to peer over the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re standing at the top of a towering cliff, and thousands of feet below is a crystal clear pool of water connected to a churning river.  A monstrous waterfall roars just to the side.  The sound of gallons upon gallons of water streaming down the rock face and into the pool beneath makes the earth tremble and my bones rattle inside my shuddering body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Has this been here the whole time?  How have we never come across this?  It’s ginormous.  How big is this arena?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No time to ponder it.  My arm is still wrapped around Cas’ middle, holding him away from the very precipice of doom, but the growls and snarls of the beasts are growing closer.  We spin around, his hand clutching my arm with a grip so tight that it’s like he’s breaking through my skin, and watch in horror as the foliage we just ran out of starts to rustle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are so many thoughts rampaging through my head that I can’t keep track of them.  We’re cornered on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go.  The beasts are bound to attack at any second.  We can’t fight them.  We can’t outrun them anymore.  We can’t do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> other than—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A single thought jumps to the front of my mind, and it makes the rest of them stop in an instant.  My heart is beating out of my chest.  I spare a glance over my shoulder, down at the pool of water at the bottom of the cliff, and I’m seized with nauseating vertigo.  But that doesn’t deter me from announcing my idea.  My very frightening, probably incredibly idiotic idea, but it’s the only one I have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas?”  I say, fighting to keep my voice as steady as possible as the bushes continue to rustle, more violently this time.  “On three, I’m gonna need you to jump.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even without seeing his face, I just know he’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.  “What?!”  he exclaims.  “It’s such a long drop!  We might not make it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you rather get torn to shreds by an animal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An outraged snarl chills me to my core.  They’re close.  They’re uncomfortably close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I force myself to tear my focus away from the shrubs and meet Cas’ distressed gaze.  “Listen, the water looks deep,”  I tell him.  “We’ll be okay.  There’s nowhere else we can go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re running out of time.  I catch a glimpse of those tawny eyes, those massive paws that could rip our throats out in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I squeeze Cas’ shaking hand in mine.  “Do you trust me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For what seems like an eternity, he merely stares back at me without uttering a single word.  His bright blue irises bore into me.  The rumbling of the waterfall and the growling of the beasts bounce around inside my head and drill into my skull.  The last thing I want to do is jump off this cliff.  The height that we’re at is absolutely horrifying, but we have no other choice.  We either take the risk and jump into the water thousands of feet below, or we face the wrath of those bloodthirsty animals.  I’d much rather make the leap of faith—literally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, barely perceptible to my overwhelmed senses, I see Cas give a faint nod of his head.  We’re jumping off the cliff, and we’re doing it together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, on three,”  I say.  Not once do I break my stare with him in a futile attempt to calm both of our frayed nerves.  “One.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the beasts creeps out of the foliage, lips curled in a ghastly snarl.  Another one soon joins it.  They’re locked onto us, and they’re advancing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A third beast shoots out into the open.  It must see what we’re doing.  It starts to run.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Three!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas leaps first, his petrified hollers resonating around the rock face.  Digging my heels into the uneven ground, I jump off the edge of the cliff and sail through the air, down toward the pool of water, just as the beasts try to swat at me.  Although, I hardly notice their aggravated snarls over the sound of my own screams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m falling so unbelievably fast that it feels like every organ inside of me is sliding up to my throat.  This was a horrible idea.  My limbs flail, heart pounds, stomach twists into knots, but the water just seems to keep getting farther and farther away.  It’s like I’m stuck in a time loop, doomed to fall forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alas, that’s not true.  I only have seconds to suck in a breath and hold it before I slam into the pool.  The cold water completely swallows me up.  I don’t know how deep I am.  I’m scared to open my eyes because of how many gurgling bubbles I feel tickling my skin.  I try to stay calm, though, try to propel myself upwards and toward the surface before I run out of oxygen.  My lungs are already burning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the current from the churning river is too strong.  It pulls me into the rapids just as I manage to get my head above the water and gulp down as much air as I can.  I’m splashed and sprayed and soaked with monstrous waves from the river.  The current keeps dragging me through the water, past jagged rocks and under the rapids until I can barely breathe anymore.  Every time I spit out a mouthful of water, the current just sucks me under the surface and makes me swallow more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic consumes me, takes total control of my floundering body.  I can’t swim.  I can’t get away from the forceful drag of the current, the raging rapids.  I bump into rocks, feel surges of pain shoot through me.  There are no opportunities for me to take a breath.  It’s just water, water, and more water.  And I can’t see or hear Cas anywhere.  He’s gone.  Completely gone, and I can’t escape the wrath of the river.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wave plows over me and tosses me into the side of a jagged rock.  I slip under the surface, and the shock of hitting the boulder makes me gasp for air.  Instead, a stream of water pours down my throat.  My chest is on fire.  I try to cough, but it’s no use.  The current is too powerful.  It keeps me under, makes more water rush into my mouth, and I can’t get it out.  I can’t breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The icy darkness envelops me in a matter of seconds.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first thing I notice is how much it feels like there’s cement in my lungs.  Then my stomach lurches, and a gush of water ejects itself from my mouth.  My eyelids snap open, heart hammers against my ribs, as the irrepressible need for oxygen to satisfy my burning chest makes me choke for air.  But there’s still water lodged in my throat.  I can’t stop my body from retching again, hacking up a spurt of the cold liquid.  I flop over onto my stomach, prop myself up with my trembling arms and knees, violently cough and hack up more and more water, gasp for that precious air, until I feel like the muscles in my abdomen have been beaten and torn to pieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When that initial terror of having my windpipe flooded with water slowly begins to subside, and when I can breathe somewhat properly again, that’s when my other senses start to return.  I sit back on my feet.  Every part of me hurts.  My head and throat and chest, most of all.  For a fleeting moment, I don’t remember what happened.  Why I’m in so much pain, why I blacked out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> I blacked out.  It’s all a blur, but the terrifying memories of the muttations and the cliff and the raging river come racing back a lot quicker than I’d like it to.  Then how did I—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when I notice the hand clutching my arm with a deathlike grip.  My hearing warps back to normal, and the distraught sobbing becomes clear as a bell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God!  I thought you were dead!”  Cas cries, his shaking hands grabbing the sides of my face.  I can barely understand him.  He’s completely soaked from head to toe, but it’s impossible to miss the torrent of tears streaming down his cheeks.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought you were dead!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts to say something else, but his words are too garbled with sobs.  I don’t even have a chance to calm him or ask him what happened before he throws his arms around my neck and practically collapses onto me.  He shudders with forceful cries and gags on broken breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, you weren’t breathing!”  he weeps.  I hold him tightly and let him talk, let him sob into my shoulder, no matter how much it pains me to see him so distressed.  “And, and your heart stopped!  I was so scared!  I, I didn’t know what to do!  I thought you were dead!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers curl around the fabric of my drenched shirt as a woeful cry rattles in his throat, cutting off his strained and grieved voice.  I don’t know what else to do other than tighten my arms around his trembling body and try to ease his anguish.  I wasn’t breathing?  And my heart really stopped?  That’s unsettling.  For how long, I wonder?  I can’t even imagine how terrified he must’ve been.  It sounds to me like I </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>be dead after what happened.  But the thought of that is gut-wrenching, so I try to push it out of my frenzied mind and focus on calming Cas down.  I’m alive, somehow.  He is, too, and that’s all that matters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gently, I shush him, tell him it’s okay, stroke his hair, cradle his head, rub his back, and I don’t stop until his violent sobs begin to fade into weak and tired snivels and whimpers.  Still, he doesn’t loosen his grip on me, not for another long while.  When he eventually coughs and draws an unsteady breath, and when he slumps back to sit on his feet, I see just how red and puffy his eyes are, just how defeated and despairing he looks.  My heart shatters.  Do I even want to know what happened while I was unconscious if it tormented him this much?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of me wants to stay in the unknown, but my curiosity takes over before I can stifle it.  I bring my thumb to Cas’ blotchy cheek and delicately wipe away the stream of tears.  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”  I ask softly.  It takes a moment for my voice to function normally again, no doubt from the water that tried to make its home in my windpipe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas is quick to shake his head, his lip quivering and his eyes squeezed shut.  Another tear trickles down his face.  “Not now,”  he whimpers.  “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be sorry,”  I tell him.  “It’s okay.  Everything’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My words make him choke on a restrained sob; each one hurts me more than the last.  I lean forward to plant a kiss on his forehead, then cradle him yet again when he falls toward me and presses the top of his head to the base of my neck.  I let my lips rest on his wet hair, close my eyes, try to concentrate on the sound of his breathing to ease the pressure in my aching chest.  And to think this whole catastrophe was the result of us simply searching for water.  Ironically, I seemed to get plenty of it.  Just not in a way that was beneficial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how long we sit there in silence, holding onto one another for dear life, but even when Cas lets me go, I know it’s not nearly long enough.  There’s still a stabbing pain in my heart when he struggles to rise to his feet and shuffles over to the riverbank that I now notice is right beside us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks like the raging rapids that I remember are far off into the distance.  Here, where we are, the river is so calm that it might as well be a babbling brook.  We must have washed up on the bank when the currents calmed down.  And by </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I suppose I mean just me.  Cas clearly survived the rapids without losing consciousness.  Otherwise we’d probably both be dead.  I still want to know what happened, but I won’t hound him for information if he doesn’t want to talk about it.  I’m sure it was horrible for him.  I don’t want to reopen any wounds if I don’t have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watch as he picks up one of our knapsacks from the mud in the bank, giving it a shake.  Water trickles off the fabric.  I spot the other one a few feet down, its strap caught on a rock.  My sword and his knife are scattered around the riverbank, too.  I pat my right pocket, and I feel the switchblade in there.  So at least we didn’t lose anything.  We have that going for us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I still feel like there’s water stuck in my throat.  With another cough, one that comes out as a feeble wheeze, I carefully stand and fight to keep my balance.  My vision spins in circles, but only for a fleeting moment, thankfully.  I must have hit my head sometime after I passed out.  I’m way dizzier than I probably should be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I unhook the other knapsack’s strap from the rock, shake the water off it, and sling it over my shoulders.  It’s heavy and awkward and completely waterlogged, but there’s nothing I can do about it.  I pick up my sword, then Cas’ knife.  I give it to him as he joins me at my side, but he doesn’t utter a single word, just takes the blade and avoids looking me in the eye.  I try not to be too worried.  I’m sure he’s still upset.  He’ll come around when he feels like it.  I’m not going to push him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a small rock outcrop nearby.  We could put our backs to it and be safe while we recoup, and that idea becomes especially favorable when I spot one rock that juts out over the rest, acting as a short canopy.  I take Cas’ hand, gently guide him over to the outcrop.  Even when we sit and slide underneath the rocky canopy, he doesn’t speak.  He hugs his knees into his chest and rests his chin on top of them, staring a thousand miles out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In an attempt to keep my racing mind occupied, I shrug off the knapsack and start to unzip it, planning to take inventory or something of the like.  Kind of pointless considering no one else has touched these knapsacks except us, but my nerves will take control of me if I don’t do something.  If Cas doesn’t want to talk, then I might as well make myself useful and make sure we have enough materials to survive for the next couple of days, at least.  Otherwise we might have to contemplate scavenging for food or hope for another generous sponsor gift.  Preferably the latter.  I don’t even want to think about traversing the rainforest after what just happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heaving a sigh, I unzip the knapsack and rifle through its waterlogged contents.  It looks like I picked up the pack with our remaining food, the one Cas usually carries.  I dig out the empty water bottle—thankfully there’s a convenient water source mere yards away—and set it aside.  We still have a few crackers, some strips of jerky, the two protein bars, an apple, a few bananas, and a meager handful of cashews and dried fruit.  Oh, and the leftover chicken noodle soup from the other night.  How could I forget about something so delicious?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re not extremely low on food, but our supply could be better, too.  We only have a small amount of each item.  We’ll need to be careful and ration it out properly if we want to avoid a trip through the dense and dangerous rainforest in the near future.  For now, I think camping out underneath this rocky canopy, hiding by the outcrop, and filling up our water bottle in the river whenever it’s necessary is our best bet.  We aren’t completely concealed, but it would take someone a long while to see us under here in the shadows.  That would be just enough time for us to make an escape if need be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m far from hungry—almost dying seemed to strip me of my appetite—but I know I should eat something.  Both of us should.  We need to recover the precious strength we lost over the last hour or so.  I take out three crackers, good for a queasy stomach, and hold them out toward Cas.  I’m discouraged but not entirely surprised when he doesn’t even seem to notice me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas,”  I say softly.  I nudge his arm with my knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks.  It’s like he’s snapping out of a trance.  With a timid hand, he takes the crackers from me, but he doesn’t move to eat them.  I barely hear him mumble a thanks as he returns to his detached torpor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but think about, with dejection, the time when we’d just been reaped for the Games.  The days where he hardly uttered a single word to me, let alone glanced in my direction.  We’ve come a long, </span>
  <em>
    <span>long </span>
  </em>
  <span>way since then, but now, as I watch him absentmindedly scratch at the crackers in his hand, scarcely speaking, it almost feels like we’re back to square one.  And I don’t want that.  I want my Cas back, the one who laughs at my stupid jokes and is too sweet for his own good.  But how do I do that without reopening those wounds I said I wasn’t going to disturb?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m getting frustrated.  Not with him.  No, never with him.  I’m mad at myself for not knowing how to help him when he’s clearly devastated and traumatized by today’s terrible events.  Do I strike up a lighthearted conversation?  Do I crack another silly joke and hope he smiles or even laughs?  Do I let him brood and allow time to chip away at his distress?  My mother always told me that time heals all wounds whenever I was upset about something.  Although it was difficult to hear in the moment, after a while, I realized she was right.  Some wounds heal in a matter of days.  Others can take years, and even then it might not completely get better.  Maybe Cas just needs a little bit more time than I anticipated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, do wounds inflicted by the Hunger Games ever really heal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grab the empty water bottle and crawl out from underneath the rocky canopy before my thoughts overwhelm me.  I stop to listen for a brief moment, and when I only hear the nearby birds and insects and the gurgling of the river, I continue forward and kneel down at the edge of the stream.  I fill the bottle to the brim and squeeze a few drops of iodine into it when I return to the outcrop.  Now we play the torturous waiting game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I eat the last two crackers in the sleeve—Cas hasn’t even looked at his—my mind begins to wander again before I can stop it in its tracks.  Are those lethal mutts still out there, searching for us so they can finish the job?  I’d like to think it’s doubtful.  Muttations are ridiculously intelligent and sometimes Gamemaker-controlled.  If they were hunting us, they surely would’ve found us by now, even after we jumped off the cliff and drifted downstream.  Maybe the Gamemakers finally took them out of the arena.  They certainly gave us a good scare and the audience a thrilling show.  Maybe we won’t have to worry about them anymore.  One can hope, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When enough time passes, I hand the water bottle to Cas and tell him to drink.  Much to my relief, he doesn’t hesitate to swallow a few generous gulps.  Then, even better, he eats the crackers I gave him a while ago.  He’s still ashen and looks like he hasn’t slept in years, of course, but at least he’s making an effort to move around and take care of himself.  We’re making progress, little by little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lean back against the rocks and stretch my sore legs out.  Might as well try to get comfortable if this outcrop is going to be our new hideaway.  It doesn’t seem like Cas plans on talking quite yet, either, but that’s okay.  I’m just glad he ate something and drank water.  I have a few sips myself, then rest the back of my head on a protruding rock.  Not the best or most ideal pillow, but whatever works, I suppose.  We haven’t exactly known comfort since our days in the Training Center apartment.  What I wouldn’t give to spend a night in that luxurious bed after sleeping on the hard ground for almost two weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just when I feel myself starting to drift off, I notice Cas shift.  The subtle movement startles me awake, and I see him sparing a glance at me.  He almost looks shy, like he was the very first time I tried to talk to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”  he finally asks, his voice soft and tentative and still slightly ragged from crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s relieving to hear him again.  I give him a nod as his concerned bright blue eyes bore into me.  “Enough,”  I say.  I think I’m as okay as I can be considering the circumstances.  What I’m worried about is whether or not </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay.  “Are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only gives a feeble shrug in response, dropping his gaze back to the ground.  He twiddles his thumbs on top of his knees.  He looks like he has a hundred different things he wants to say but doesn’t know where or even how to begin.  I hope he feels comfortable enough to start somewhere, though.  I’ve been trying not to let it bother me, but knowing there’s so much turmoil swimming around inside of him is troubling, and it’s just getting worse by the minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I extend my hand toward him in the hope that he takes it.  My chest flutters when he doesn’t hesitate to do so, settling his fingers in between mine with a grip so tight that for a fleeting moment, I’m afraid my bones are going to break.  But then he relaxes, a trembling sigh slipping out of his mouth as he inches toward me and nestles into my side.  Head in the crook of my neck, legs brushing up against mine, joined hands resting atop my thigh.  Somehow, his presence is even more soothing than before.  I didn’t think it was possible, but I don’t mind in the slightest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he snuggles in, I bring his hand up to my lips and press a kiss to it.  For a long while, neither of us speaks.  We merely sit huddled underneath the rocky canopy in blissful silence, relishing one another’s company, grateful that the events from earlier didn’t end in tragedy.  They very well could have and almost did, but we got lucky for what feels like the millionth time.  And I’m not taking that for granted, no matter how bizarre this streak of luck may be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The afternoon heat is steamy and oppressive, even in the shade.  Still, Cas nestles closer, and it’s only when I find myself staring at the nearby river that the questions I have become too unbearable to hold back anymore.  I have to know what happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long was I out?”  I ask before I have a chance to figure out how to word the question without upsetting Cas again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he doesn’t speak, just tenses up as he draws an unsteady breath.  I’m afraid I’ve crossed a line, but then, much to my relief, he answers.  “A couple minutes, maybe,”  he says softly, tracing circles on the back of my thumb.  “It felt like forever, though.  You weren’t breathing.  I couldn’t feel your heartbeat.  I really thought you were dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to keep the conversation moving before I can get too hung up on the terrifying fact that I was unknowingly flirting with death for two minutes.  “Then how did I wake up if I wasn’t breathing and didn’t have a pulse?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas falls silent once more, although it doesn’t last as long as the previous bout.  “Remember the arena from a few years ago?”  he asks.  “The one with the chain of islands and the water all around them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m quick to nod.  That arena was praised as one of the most unique and interesting arenas in years.  There was so much water that the tributes had to swim almost everywhere.  They had to swim to the Cornucopia.  They had to swim from island to island because only certain islands harbored food or secure shelter.  There were even large rivers on some of the more expansive islands, and tributes had to swim across them to reach the other side of the isle.  I will admit that it was a creative layout for an arena, but I would’ve been absolutely terrified if I’d been there.  Clearly, I can’t swim.  I assume most of the kids across Panem can’t, except maybe the ones from District 4, where going out into water and fishing is their job.  There were a lot of drownings in those Games.  It was awful to watch.  But what does that have to do with my miraculous awakening?  I was practically drowned, just like a lot of the kids a few years prior.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause before Cas continues.  He lets go of a shuddering exhale.  “I remembered that when one of the tributes was unconscious after his lungs filled up with water, his partner started pressing on his chest, right where his heart was.  She breathed into his mouth, too, then kept pushing on him.  I didn’t know what that did or why she thought it was going to work, but after a while, he woke up, started coughing out water.  I couldn’t believe it.  She’d saved him by pressing on his chest in some steady rhythm and breathing air into his mouth.  I still don’t really understand how it works.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another pause.  An uneasy one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But when I saw that you weren’t breathing and didn’t have a pulse, what she did to her unconscious district partner somehow popped into my head, and I gave it a try.  Well, actually, I panicked and spiraled into hysteria first, but then I gave it a try.  I guess it really does work, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit forward, turn around to face him as the gears in my head attempt to process everything he just told me.  He looks so tired, his eyes ever so slightly glistening with tears as he tries his best to put on a small smile.  He saved me, essentially brought me back from the dead by remembering a technique that he’d seen on the Games a few years ago.  How do you even express that kind of immense gratitude in words?  I don’t know what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I don’t need to say much.  There are so many emotions swirling around inside of me that I can’t pinpoint a single one other than the irresistible desire to kiss him.  When my lips find his, it’s like all of the words I couldn’t articulate pour out from my touch, and I think Cas understands it, too.  He pulls me closer, so close that I can almost feel his heartbeat against my own chest.  There he goes, making me fall even harder for him.  I’m starting to think this is a never-ending descent, but I’m okay with that.  I’m definitely okay with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m wildly out of breath when I draw back and rest my forehead against his.  His hand on my cheek, I lean into his comforting touch, feel goosebumps prickle my skin as the tip of his nose brushes with mine.  Only two words come to mind, two simple but powerful words, and all I can do is hope that the amount of gratefulness I feel gets through to him.  “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas doesn’t say anything, just gives a small, near-unnoticeable nod of his head as he releases another unsteady sigh, gently rubs my cheek with the pad of his thumb.  I think he knows.  And I’m relieved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the afternoon seems to fly by.  We spend it in reposeful silence once more, trying to unwind as much as we can.  Cas is curled up into my side, his hand gripping my own like it’s his lifeline.  Then again, I’m one to talk.  I’m squeezing his like I’ll die if I let it go.  I think my fingers started to cramp up a long time ago, but I’ve gone numb to it.  I’m not letting go of his hand until I absolutely have to.  It gives me more solace than I could ever describe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrenaline shoots through my veins when a cannon goes off at the beginning of dusk, but it quickly dissipates when nothing else comes of it.  Night soon falls, and we realize it was the second boy from District 7.  I figured he couldn’t last much longer.  Still, he managed to survive a decent number of days by himself.  I can’t help but wonder what finally got him in the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, only six tributes left.  Three complete pairs.  Cas and me, District 10, and District 2, and the boys from 2 will most definitely be on the prowl.  That’s not a particularly encouraging realization to make before bedtime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas doesn’t want to sleep first.  Quite frankly, I don’t either, but I don’t want to argue about it.  Instead, I bite my tongue and begrudgingly settle in for the night, trying to focus on how much I need the rest rather than the disturbing thought of what we’re going to do if the Gamemakers decide to force us into some final showdown in the days to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m surprised when those dreadful ideas don’t make an appearance in my dreams.  My sleep is quite uneventful, thankfully, and Cas wakes me up in what must be a few hours, possibly more.  Then he nestles up against me and takes his turn.  Other than a couple of unconscious twitches here and there, his sleep doesn’t seem to be too terrible.  He stirs just as dawn approaches, not as rested as either of us would’ve probably liked, but at least we both had the chance to get some shut-eye.  We’ll need it where we’re headed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We spend the warm morning drinking our water, deciding how to ration what’s left of our food.  We split a banana and have some cashews for breakfast and figure our remaining containers of chicken noodle soup should be saved for later tonight or tomorrow morning.  As much as I want to finish it off, I know it would be smarter to wait.  I almost couldn’t keep it down the last time we ate it because of how delectable and filling it was.  We’ll take it in manageable chunks next round, when we’re really hungry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas hasn’t said much.  I can tell he’s uneasy about there being only six of us left.  On one hand, it’s reassuring.  Incredible, even.  We’re so close to getting out of here and going home.  It almost feels surreal.  But there are still four people out there who want us dead, who also want to go home to their families, and I know they’ll stop at nothing to achieve that goal.  I don’t think any of us will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Games have been going on for almost two weeks, but it sickens me to think that the real fight is only just beginning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no point in fretting, no matter how difficult it is to ignore those harrowing thoughts.  I try with all my might to focus on the present, the peaceful present, where I’m safe and sound with Cas by my side.  We’ve persevered through so many unimaginable horrors.  I have faith we can do it again with whatever is thrown our way.  We have to.  There’s no other choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As midday rolls around and the air grows thick with humidity, I decide to fill our tense silence with something that’s been floating around in the back of my mind since the beginning of this whole catastrophe.  Talking about something will hopefully lessen the discomfort weighing down the atmosphere.  “Hey, so I was wondering,”  I begin with a small smile, tearing Cas’ attention away from the ground.  “If and when we get out of here, what are we gonna do to keep our minds occupied?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question almost makes Cas do a double take.  He blinks, ponders an answer for a long while before cracking a smile himself.  “I have no idea,”  he says.  “I guess I’ve always liked cooking, though.  I helped my mom make what little food we had every night.  She called me her kitchen assistant.  Maybe I’ll get into cooking by myself, or maybe baking.  I don’t know.”  He finishes with a shrug and a sheepish grin, one that makes my heart swell.  He’d be a good cook slash baker.  I can see it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, either,”  I agree with a sigh.  “I don’t know how to do anything other than pluck seed heads off wheat stalks and milk cows.  Won’t really need to do that if we have more money and food than we could even handle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods, but rather solemnly.  Victors of the Games are showered with ludicrous amounts of money and food and jewels and so many other things that we wouldn’t even know what to do with.  The food would be welcomed, of course, because most of us kids from outlying districts have been starving our entire lives, but the jewels and other fancy riches that serve no purpose other than boosting public image?  Useless.  Clothes and money and jewels don’t matter to me.  Seeing my family again and knowing my little brother won’t go to bed hungry are the best prizes I could ever receive, and one look at Cas tells me he’s thinking the same thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, it’s a thought-provoking concept to contemplate.  We’d each have a lavish new house in the Victors’ Village.  We’d be able to have three full meals a day, every single day.  We’d never have to worry about starving or freezing to death in the winter.  We could live the rest of our lives in peace, or at least somewhat.  I don’t think anyone is ever completely at peace after surviving the Hunger Games, but all we could do is try.  Now pondering all of these things is making me antsy to get out of here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I could teach you how to cook,”  Cas offers, interrupting my train of thought.  “Or maybe you could help the ladies who own that knitting shop in the square.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s impossible to stifle a chuckle when I see his teasing smirk.  I have a sneaking suspicion that knitting isn’t for me.  “I’m sure I’ll find something,”  I say.  “What does Bobby even do, anyway?  I don’t think I ever saw him around the district before the train ride.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mention of our mentor and what he does to keep himself busy makes Cas’ eyebrows raise.  Surely it’s been at least fifteen or twenty years since his Games.  What does he do to pass the time?  I can’t imagine it’s all that easy being a victor, no matter how much the Capitol praises it.  With all that free time and nothing to do with it other than try to repress the trauma inflicted by the Games, our mentor must do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>to occupy his mind.  Cas plans on cooking and baking.  I don’t know what I’ll do yet, but what about dear old Bobby Singer?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Cas lifts his shoulders in a shrug.  “No clue,”  he says with a laugh.  “That man is a mystery.  I’m still not convinced that he likes me that much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense,”  I say, dismissing his remark with a wave of my hand.  “He definitely likes you.  That’s probably why we’ve gotten so many sponsor gifts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas scoffs, but he doesn’t argue.  Instead, his eyes widen.  I would be worried if an amused smile didn’t accompany his sudden change of expression.  “You know what I just realized?”  he says.  “If we win, we’re going to have to be neighbors with Bobby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pretend like I’m getting up.  “All right,”  I sigh.  “I’m off to find District Two so they can put me out of my misery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laugh that we share as I sit back down is so uplifting that all the tension making my body ache seems to vanish.  If the entirety of Panem is watching, I hope they’re enjoying our playful jabs at Bobby.  I’m sure most of them know about him, anyway, after all of his years as a mentor.  And if </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> watching, I hope he knows we’re not being serious.  I actually don’t mind him in the slightest.  Sure, he can be a bit ill-tempered and difficult to deal with at times, but he’s not a bad man.  He’s gotten us more sponsors than I could’ve ever hoped for.  In all reality, I could think of a hundred different things worse than being his neighbor in the Victors’ Village.  It might even be kind of fun.  Albeit, in a very bizarre way, but it wouldn’t be awful.  Not at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the laughter dies down and a blithe smile lingers on my lips, Cas reaches out and gives my hand a gentle squeeze.  “We’ll find something for you,”  he reassures me.  “Can’t have you being too bored, now, can we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With another chuckle, the conversation peters out.  I’m not sure what else to discuss, so I let the tranquil silence fill the air around us.  Slowly but surely, midday bleeds into afternoon.  Cas eats a few pieces of chicken as well as a few noodles from his container of chicken noodle soup.  I munch on a small handful of dried fruit.  Off and on throughout the remainder of the quiet day, we chat about random topics.  Whatever comes to mind, really.  The conversations don’t always make sense, but they keep us entertained, keep our racing thoughts in check for a period of time.  That’s all that matters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We drain the water bottle of its contents before twilight even has a chance to creep into view.  I guess we were thirstier than we thought.  Carefully, I sneak out from underneath the rocky canopy and fill it back up with water from the babbling stream.  A couple more drops of iodine, another bout of waiting, and then we’ll be good to go.  Although we didn’t stumble upon the river in the best way possible, I’m glad we have a water source at our disposal.  It’s a mere few steps away from our hideout.  How perfect is that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve just returned to the outcrop and screwed the lid back on the water bottle when the cannon fires.  Except this time, it’s not one, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>booms that echo through the rainforest.  One right after the other.  My stomach twists into knots at the chilling sound.  I didn’t expect another death to happen this quickly, let alone </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>back-to-back.  I thought it would be at least another day before this happened.  Clearly, I was mistaken, and I wish I wasn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I look at Cas.  He’s rattled by the sudden loss of two more tributes, without a doubt, but I’m surprised to see a feeble smile forming on his pale face.  “Would it be wishful thinking to hope those were the ones from District Two?”  he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only.  I mean, I suppose it’s entirely possible, but my gut is telling me otherwise.  It sounds like there’s been a fight somewhere.  Two tributes don’t just die out of the blue this far into the Games.  Whatever happened out there in the midst of the rainforest, there are only four of us left now, and two of them are Cas and me.  I should be excited.  Just two people stand in our way of winning and going home, but truthfully, I’m quite the opposite.  The stakes have never been higher.  I don’t know if I’m ready for this.  We’ve talked about it, thought about the possibility of winning for so long, but now that it’s realistically within reach, I’ve never been more terrified of what could happen in the following hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When darkness envelops the rainforest and the Capitol seal flashes in the canopy above, my worst fear is brought to life before my very eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two tributes in the sky are both from District 10.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas and I are trapped in the arena with a pair of Careers who eliminated an entire team in seconds.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Cas gets sick.  I hold onto his trembling arm, rub his back as he coughs and retches up the contents of his stomach just outside the outcrop.  There isn’t much.  It’s mainly the chicken and noodles, mixed together with a thin stream of bile and saliva.  I try not to look, or even listen, for that matter.  I’m dangerously close to following suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My own stomach churns and my throat dries out when Cas spits on the ground, into the messy puddle he’s decorated the earth with.  I think he’s through the worst of it, thankfully.  He sits back on his feet, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, still shuddering like he’s freezing.  I keep rubbing his back, desperately trying not to let the pungent smell make me eject the little food I’ve eaten, too.  I can taste it in the back of my mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was disgusting,”  Cas eventually says.  His voice sounds ragged.  “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be sorry,”  I tell him.  I have to swallow to calm my turbulent stomach.  “Do you feel any better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The faint rays of moonlight peering through the leafy canopy make his eyes appear brighter than ever as he turns to meet my gaze.  Despite the terrified glint in his own, he manages a weak smile.  “Not really,”  he admits.  “Now I’m just nauseous </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>scared out of my wits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes two of us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I keep an eye out while he rinses his mouth in the river.  He splashes his face, gargles water, wipes away the small trail of sticky saliva still clinging to his chin.  Then he returns to the outcrop with me, the security of the rocky canopy, and there’s nothing I can do to stop the flood of harrowing thoughts from plaguing my entire body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just us and District 2.  I’m struggling to come to terms with that fact.  We really made it this far.  We outlived twenty other tributes, and now we’re in the final four.  I should be happy, right?  I should be happy that we’re both still alive.  I should be happy that we actually have a decent shot at winning.  I should be happy that, despite everything that’s happened, there are only two more people we have to outlive, which sounds like a cakewalk after doing it to twenty others.  I should be happy, shouldn’t I?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hug my knees into my chest.  The endless possibilities of what could happen just keep coming, just keep harassing me, and I don’t know how to ignore them.  Those two Careers took out District 10 within seconds.  What if they’re looking for us right now?  I’m almost positive they are.  They probably want to get out of here as badly as we do.  They probably enjoyed slaughtering the boys from 10, and now that Cas and I are their only remaining opponents, there’s no doubt in my mind that they’re just itching to get their hands on us so they can claim their victory.  The same victory that I’ve dreamed about us claiming for days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What are our odds?  Cas and I are both armed, although I’m sure they are, too.  They likely have much more training, but we know how to work well as a coordinated team.  They’re probably bigger than us, but we’re quick.  And who knows?  Maybe they won’t find us, and something else will get them before we have to.  Starvation, dehydration, one of those horrifying muttations.  This arena is chock-full of surprises.  Maybe we can win by waiting them out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doubtful.  The Gamemakers will almost definitely want some kind of bloody, violent grand finale to entertain the Capitol.  It’s just a matter of when they’re going to pull the trigger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My insides twist into knots.  My chest tightens, squeezes all the oxygen out of my lungs.  What are we going to do if we’re forced into a fight?  Cas hasn’t fought with another tribute.  I’m terrified of the idea of him scuffling with someone, let alone a Career from District 2.  I only survived my run-in with District 1 because of sheer luck.  It was barely a fight.  I never even touched that one boy, and Cresh was already down.  There wasn’t a full-blown brawl, not like the one the Gamemakers are surely planning this very moment.  What are we going to do when they finally deploy it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We made it so far, survived for this long, and the thought of it all being for nothing makes me want to cry and scream until my throat is torn to shreds.  I want to go home.  I want to go home so desperately, and I want Cas to come with me.  But how are we supposed to do that when almost all of the odds are stacked against us?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even realize how trapped in my own thoughts I’ve been until I’m startled back to reality when Cas says my name, lays his hand on my knee.  He looks more worried about me than the frightening predicament we’re stuck in.  His concern, combined with the unbridled dread surging through me, is what forces the first tear to trickle down my cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not many tears follow.  I don’t think it’s because I’m dehydrated.  I’m not that parched.  Instead, after those few tears stream down my face and drip off my jawline, I’m afflicted with a pain so numbing and so distressing that there might as well be a toxic venom coursing through my blood, paralyzing me, rendering me helpless and miserable and afraid.  I can’t cry.  My body won’t let me.  I can’t tremble, or even speak.  It’s like I’m locked inside my own skin with no way of calling out for help, no way of breaking free from this torment.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s the hope that if I stay here forever, if I completely tune out the world around me, I’ll never have to confront the two boys who I’m terrified will kill us without even trying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so deadened that I barely notice Cas’ hand on my cheek.  Gently, he brushes away a stray tear with his thumb.  Something about his warm touch must shatter a small part of my trance, because I find myself leaning into his hand as a shuddering breath racks my entire body.  It’s enough for me to feel him pulling me into his arms, at least.  Still, no more tears fall, not even when he strokes my hair and rests his chin on my shoulder.  I manage to hug him back, though it’s difficult to concentrate on the steadiness of his heartbeat or his comforting warmth when all I’m thinking about is the possibility of our time together growing short.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know it’s going to be nearly impossible to sleep tonight, yet somehow, at the same time, it’s all I want to do.  Escape the unbearable apprehension for a short while.  Maybe, by some miracle, I’ll feel better and more prepared to handle what’s happening when I wake up.  That is, if I’m even able to fall asleep in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Cas says he doesn’t mind staying up while I try to rest.  Then, to my surprise, he lies down on the ground, slides one of the knapsacks under his head to use as a pillow, motions for me to nestle up against him.  Usually I’m the human cushion, so his offer catches me off guard, but only for a fleeting moment.  I’m too drained and anxious to object.  Besides, curling up into his side, having him hold me while I sleep, sounds like pure bliss right about now.  He always seems to know what’s best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the numbness still seizing me, the world at least seems to stop spiraling out of control when I rest my head on his chest.  He drapes his arm around my abdomen, the faint touch of his fingertips against my stomach making my skin prickle with goosebumps.  I can hear the soft thumping of his heart.  I can hear the air moving inside his lungs as he breathes in and out.  I force my eyes closed, trying with all my might to focus on those soothing sounds, willing myself to get the rest I’ll need for the hours to come.  As I snuggle closer, Cas plays with my hair, gently runs his fingers through my tangled locks.  Slowly but surely, I start to feel sleepy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be home soon,”  is the last thing I hear him say before I drift off into slumber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My sleep is sporadic and restless.  I must wake up every few minutes, at least, either from a flash of a nightmare or just the unease that’s been haunting me ever since the latest death recap.  Still, Cas doesn’t purposely wake me so he can take his turn, and the next thing I know, daylight is approaching.  How I managed to make it through the entire night with frustratingly short bursts of sleep is beyond me.  Why didn’t he wake me up?  I probably would have been more useful keeping watch than stealing his hours of sleep with my restlessness.  He needs it, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t offer much of an explanation as I sit up and try to stretch out my aching muscles.  Something about taking a nap during the day if he needs to, and then he changes the topic, directs the attention to how muggy the air is today.  It’s very unpleasant.  The dense moisture is clinging to my skin, making it difficult to breathe.  I know this kind of air.  I’ve experienced it a handful of times during the hot summers in District 9.  When this kind of air rolled in and swathed the district, it was time to go inside, seal the windows shut, and pray to whatever higher power there is that you lived to see the next day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a storm coming, and it’s going to be a big one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if my overwhelming anxiety couldn’t get any worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas must sense it, too.  The trepidation in the atmosphere, the lingering threat of the impending storm.  He peers out beyond the rocky canopy and gazes up at the sky that’s concealed by leaves.  It doesn’t look particularly overcast, even through the layer of foliage, but I know that feeling in the air, that sense of dread when you know something unfavorable is looming above your head.  It’s impossible to miss, and even more impossible to ignore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you hungry?”  I ask my disquieted district partner before the tense silence swallows me whole.  If a storm really is brewing, then we’re going to need all the strength and energy we can get.  I’m afraid to even wonder how long we have until it strikes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas lifts his shoulders in a weak shrug.  He’s paled considerably over the last few minutes.  “No,”  he says, “but I’ll eat.  You’ll just argue about it otherwise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but smile when he cracks a faint one of his own.  He’s not wrong.  I want to make sure he eats something before whatever is going to happen rains down on us—possibly literally.  I’m sure he’s only more nauseated than ever before—my stomach churns at the mere thought of food—but we need it.  Surviving the last portion of the Games on an empty stomach is not a very preferable option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I suggest he starts small by drinking the broth from his chicken noodle soup.  It’s not completely food, but it’s something nutritious and hearty to fill him up.  I fish out the apple from the knapsack, borrow his knife, and cut it in half.  I set one of the halves aside for him to eat when he’s ready while I munch on the other and try to stay solidified in the present; it’s much easier said than done.  When I finish my chunk of the apple, I chew on a few pieces of dried fruit, a tiny handful of cashews.  Cas starts to work on his apple by the time I finish the cashews and move onto my container of chicken noodle soup.  Although it’s cold, it’s still just as delicious as the first night we received it.  I try my best to savor every single bite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind begins to pick up.  It’s cooler than the air around us and rustles the leaves of the foliage, whistles ominously through the tree branches.  I can’t tell if I’ve just gotten used to the sound of the singing birds or if they’ve gone quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas flashes me a nervous glance as he picks out an apple seed and flicks it away.  Despite my own growing terror, I return his glance with one of the most comforting ones I can muster up.  There’s clearly a storm coming.  There’s no denying it.  But it’s not here quite yet.  We’re still okay, at least for the time being, and hopefully long afterwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We split one of the protein bars and another banana.  Then we gulp down all of the contents of the water bottle and make haste to refill it and purify it before the wind picks up again.  I don’t think I can choke down any more food without risking it coming right back up—I’m sure Cas feels the same—so all we can do now is sit and wait beneath the rocky canopy.  Wait for something to happen.  Hope that by some miracle, the elements take out the boys from District 2 before we’re inevitably brought together for the finale.  It’s a long shot, but it’s still possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The minutes that tick by feel like hours.  Cas hardly speaks, just sits across from me at a slight diagonal, one of his knees brushing against mine.  I can’t help but wonder where our opponents are as the wind continues to disrupt the tranquility of the rainforest.  Are they holed up somewhere like we are, anticipating the arrival of this storm?  Are they prowling the arena in search of us?  If how quickly they killed the boys from 10 is anything to go on, though, it’s unlikely that they’re afraid of a storm that hasn’t even struck yet.  No, they’re probably searching for us.  Strangely enough, too, I’m actually hoping the storm kicks in soon, especially if they’re unsheltered when we are.  Maybe the storm will hand us the victory that’s being dangled in front of us like a piece of meat to a starving animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As my mind wanders to dangerous places, swarms with thousands upon thousands of unnerving thoughts, I find myself absentmindedly twirling the silver locket hanging from my necklace.  It’s almost ridiculous how much this little thing has helped me in the arena.  And to think it was given to me by a citizen of the Capitol and a key member of the process of the Hunger Games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I miss my stylist.  I really do.  I never thought I’d say that about anyone from the Capitol, but Crowley is different.  He and Meg both.  I’m still not quite sure how or why, but they cared about us, believed in us enough to give us these necklaces, and I just know that they’re watching us right now, cheering for us, rooting for us to win.  They said we could do it.  They trust us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think of the photos inside my locket as I rub the cool metal, and the photos inside Cas’, too.  Friends and family.  Even more people who believe in us, who are rooting for our victory.  It’s been years since anyone from District 9 has made it this far.  I can’t even imagine what’s going on at home right now.  There’s either a massive celebration being planned, or everyone is packed in the square, silently and anxiously staring at the screens broadcasting the Games.  It’s probably the latter, but it brings me joy to think about the rough and brusque field workers who are much older than me participating in a district-wide party.  I’d love to see something like that.  And who knows?  Maybe we will.  All we have to do is survive this imminent storm and possibly the wrath of the Careers from District 2.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no pressure, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stop twirling the locket between my fingers when I feel a pair of eyes watching me.  Glancing up, I meet Cas’ curious gaze.  He nods down at my locket as he reaches up to hold onto his own.  “Is yours like mine?”  he asks softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod, a faint smile pulling on my lips at the thought of the photos tucked inside.  “Yeah,”  I say.  I press the clasp on the side of the locket and open it up for him to see.  “It’s gotten me through some pretty stressful moments.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas glances among the photos.  My mom’s, my dad’s, Charlie’s, Sam’s, and his own.  Then he opens his locket and shows me its contents.  I don’t care that I’ve already seen it.  I don’t think either of us can get enough of looking at the faces of those we care most about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,”  he agrees.  He lets out a breathy chuckle as he closes his back up, and I follow suit.  “When Meg gave it to me in the Launch Room, she told me that we’d better win, or she’d kill us.  Not very logical, but it made me laugh, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I find myself laughing along at the idea of Meg’s caring threat.  Two words that definitely do not go together, but still.  That’s Meg in a nutshell.  “She’s a colorful character, that’s for sure,”  I remark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s putting it lightly,”  Cas says with an amused scoff.  “I never knew what was going to come out of her mouth.  It was terrifying.  At least your stylist had a little bit more of a verbal filter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only in public,”  I say.  I flash him a wink, and suddenly we’re both laughing.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really </span>
  </em>
  <span>laughing, like we used to back in the safety of the hollow that was shrouded by vines.  It’s only been a couple of days since we left, but it seems like centuries, and laughing like this has never felt more blissful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, like all good things, it comes to an end far too soon.  Cas fiddles with his locket as the wind whistles through the trees outside.  His once mirthful eyes begin to glaze over, and my own paralyzing apprehension makes a return, trickles back into my blood.  It’s getting darker out there.  I know it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m almost startled when Cas draws an unsteady breath.  “What do you think they’re planning?”  he asks, nodding toward the rest of the rainforest, barely speaking above a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I manage a shrug.  “Nothing good,”  I say.  I hope my voice isn’t wavering as much as I feel like it is.  “They could be cooking up anything in that fancy control room of theirs.  It’s impossible to tell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Cas falls silent.  He hikes his knees up, pulls them toward his chest, nervously wrings his hands in front of his legs.  When he eventually returns his attention to me, there’s such an overwrought glint in his eyes that it almost seems to pierce a hole right through me.  “We have a chance, don’t we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,”  I don’t hesitate to say.  I just wish my optimism wasn’t limited to words.  “We’ve made it this far, yeah?  What’s a little more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods, although I’m not entirely sure if he believes me.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>not even sure if I believe me.  Even if the odds were equal—which I’m worried to think that they’re not—that’s still a fifty percent chance of us not winning and dying at the hands of District 2.  Sure, that’s also a fifty percent chance of us claiming the victory, but it’s almost impossible to focus on that when the prospect of death is so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>probable.  The mere thought of it is enough to make me want to throw up and scream my throat raw.  I don’t want that to happen.  Not now.  Not after everything we’ve been through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I must have spaced off again, fallen victim to my nauseating thoughts.  I’m dragged back to the grim reality at hand when I see Cas holding onto his locket once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For them,”  he says quietly, firmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words evoke a far-off memory.  I think back to what Crowley told me in the Launch Room, after he gave me my necklace.  I reach out and take Cas’ hand.  “And for each other,”  I add.  The shy smile that Cas flashes me makes my churning stomach erupt with butterflies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a few long, beautifully hushed moments, that’s how we remain.  Hand in hand, absorbing as much peace as we can before we lose the chance.  Without a doubt, every single person in Panem is tuned in to the Games right now, either watching us prepare for what’s to come or watching the boys from District 2 do whatever it is that they’re doing.  The grand finale is looming on the horizon.  No one will want to miss it.  I can practically hear Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith commentating over the broadcast, bantering with each other about who they think is going to come out on top.  I can’t even imagine how insane the betting stations are, too, what with only two teams remaining.  Busy times in the Capitol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder if anyone is betting on us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But while the citizens of the Capitol are simply concerned with how much money they’re placing on the odds of our survival, it disheartens me to think about my family, Cas’ family.  They’ve watched us suffer for almost two weeks, and now they’re supposed to watch us face off against the district that’s won more times than any other.  I try to put myself in their shoes, to even fathom how terrifying that would be, but it’s too much to handle.  I’m starting to believe they’re stronger than we are for watching their loved ones fight to keep death at bay for so long.  I don’t know if I would be able to do such a thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about the extent of their unbridled stress makes me realize something.  It just means we’ll have to try to win even harder than we were planning to.  I can’t bear the thought of letting down our families after giving them this much hope for nearly two weeks, after giving one another this much hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For them, and for each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I squeeze Cas’ hand when a faint rumble of thunder vibrates the ground beneath us.  My heartbeat quickens.  The storm is getting closer, and it already sounds worse than any other storm we’ve experienced in the arena so far.  It certainly doesn’t sound natural.  It has to be Gamemaker-made.  Which means it’s going to be entirely unpredictable and all the more dangerous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I realize I’m hearing something else along with the distant thunder.  It sounds like crackling, the chilling noise a breaking branch makes before it snaps off its tree.  Dread surges through me when I think about the possibility of one of those massive trees outside coming down on us, but when I glance up, I see that the problem is not emanating from a tree, but rather the very rocks creating this canopy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fractures jolt through the rocks, like an array of veins.  Thin streams of dust and pieces of rock trickle from the fissures.  The crackling is getting louder.  I barely have enough time to let out a shout, grab Cas, and pull the two of us out of harm’s way before the whole canopy collapses and caves in, right on top of where we were just sitting mere milliseconds ago.  More and more dust billows into the air like a cloud as the fragmented rocks settle on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Talk about far too close for comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My arms and legs are trembling so badly that it’s difficult for me to stand, let alone help Cas to his feet.  We could’ve been crushed, and it all would’ve been over, just like that.  I almost missed the fracturing of the rocks because of the rumbling thunder, but I’m so glad I didn’t.  Although, the flood of adrenaline pumping through my blood quickly dissolves into anger when I wonder if that was the Gamemakers’ plan, to try to crush us to death so District 2 could be crowned.  They’re always Capitol favorites.  Why not give them an easy win?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no time to brood over it.  We don’t have a shelter anymore, and the storm is only getting closer and closer by the minute.  Now that that realization crosses my mind, maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the Gamemakers’ plan.  Destroy our shelter so we would have to fight back against the storm instead of hiding from it.  Of course.  Hiding isn’t nearly violent enough for the bloodthirsty Capitol citizens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheap,”  I mutter under my breath as I stare at the wrecked remains of our shelter.  I hate how much power they have over us.  It disgusts me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An intense clap of thunder tears me away from my spiraling thoughts.  The wind picks up, whips through my clothes, almost knocks me off balance.  I would be much more worried about the approaching storm if I didn’t remember all of our essential gear is trapped beneath the ruins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart leaps up to my throat, threatens to jump out of my mouth.  I scramble over to the broken rocks and get a grip on the edge.  “Cas, come help,”  I tell him.  He doesn’t hesitate to join me, and together, with all the strength we can manage, we lift the first rock up and push it aside.  We’re just moving onto the next when a cold front blows through the clearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We don’t have much time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, it doesn’t take long until our gear comes into view, coated in a layer of dust and pieces of rock.  I grab the knapsack that’s closest and yank it out from underneath the wreckage.  Cas finds his knife and my sword and retrieves them both.  The other knapsack is completely buried under a rock that looks far too heavy to lift, so after Cas tosses the weapons behind us, he seizes one of the straps and pulls as hard as he can.  It doesn’t budge.  He gives it another forceful tug, but still, no movement, and we don’t have the time or energy to recover it.  We’ll have to leave it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sling our one remaining knapsack over my shoulders as thunder booms through the air, rattles my bones.  Any minute now, and it’ll be here in full.  I didn’t realize how much I’d been suppressing my terror until the true weight of the situation strikes me like a bullet.  This is it.  This is the grand finale everyone has been waiting for.  This is the moment </span>
  <em>
    <span>we’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>been waiting for.  We’ve survived everything the Games have thrown at us, and now it’s time for the final test.  The final battle.  The final chance we’ll be given to walk out of this arena alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I’m utterly petrified of letting that chance slip past our fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My breaths come in shallow pants.  I can’t control them anymore.  I turn to Cas as the sunlight continues to dwindle and grab his shoulders, look into his frightened bright blue eyes.  “Listen, Cas,”  I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.  “No matter what happens, I just want you to know that even though these past few weeks have really sucked, I couldn’t be happier about getting to spend them with you.  You kept me sane and made me smile when I thought I wouldn’t be able to again.  I just wish all of this could’ve happened back home instead of a place like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment—though it feels like centuries—Cas doesn’t say a word.  His stare flits back and forth between my eyes, as if he’s searching for something deep inside my mind, before the faintest trace of a smile tugs at his lips.  “You’re talking like this is the last time you’ll have the chance to,”  he says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His remark only worsens the aching pain in my chest.  “I know,”  I say.  “I’m not trying to sound all doom and gloom.  I’m not giving up yet.  I just want you to know how much you mean to me in case something goes awry out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flicker of an emotion I can’t quite discern shimmers in Cas’ eyes, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appeared.  “Well, in that case,”  he begins with a nervous breath, “I just want you to know that you mean a lot to me, too.  I won’t go into too many details because we’d be standing here for hours.  I just hope you know how happy you’ve made me and how much I’ve cherished every single second we’ve spent together, no matter the situation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Among all the overwhelming apprehension, his words make my stomach flutter, make a genuine smile form on my face.  He really is always good for a smile.  “Like you said, we’ll be home soon, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods, but there’s a hint of hesitancy, a hint of unease, clouding his expression, and I feel it in my gut.  Neither of us knows what’s going to happen in the coming moments.  It’s impossible to predict.  We shared our thoughts for a minute of blitheness, but deep down, I’m terrified to think that it very well could’ve been the last time we had the chance to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s why when my shaking hands cup his face and I lean forward to press my lips to his, it’s a kiss unlike any other.  It’s a kiss so desperate, so longing, so filled with fear and uncertainty that it knocks all the oxygen out of my lungs, and only his lips can soothe the discomfort.  I feel his cool hands on my neck; it makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.  He draws back to catch his breath, his lips brushing against mine, his nose pressed into my cheek, but I can’t wait.  I kiss him hard, harder than I ever have, like he’s the very thing keeping me alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The distant sound of rainfall is what finally breaks us apart.  Our gazes follow the noise, and beyond the outcrop we see a massive wall of rain pouring down from the sky.  Thunder booms.  The wind violently gusts through the forest.  The rain drums against the leaves of the foliage, and it’s advancing.  Quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pure adrenaline pulses through my veins.  I crouch down and scoop up our weapons.  I can barely hear the thunder anymore over the blood roaring in my ears.  “You ready?”  I ask Cas, giving him his knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, eyes stretched wide and chest heaving with frantic breaths.  “Not really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me neither.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A streak of lightning flashes up above.  It illuminates the terror on my district partner’s face.  The storm is here, and it’s not going to give us a head start.  We have to move.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay close to me!”  I cry over the pounding rain, the bellowing thunder.  I spin on my heels and take off toward the dense treeline—I can hear Cas right behind me—before the rain has a chance to engulf us, before the threatening storm has a chance to claim us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the beginning of the end.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s darker than ever amid the sea of trees.  I blindly sprint through the forest, hopping over tangled masses of tree roots and rocks and bumpy patches of terrain, my feet hardly touching the ground.  I can hear Cas’ footsteps thumping close behind me, but only just barely.  The ominous wall of rain is barreling after us, bringing deafening claps of thunder and horrifying bolts of lightning with it.  I don’t dare turn around.  I know it’s right behind us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not even sure where I’m running.  I just know that I’m moving away from the dangerous storm, and that’s more than enough to fuel my rapid movements.  My lungs are on fire.  My heart is trying to burst out of my chest, but none of it matters.  I’m afraid that if we slow down for a second—a </span>
  <em>
    <span>second</span>
  </em>
  <span>—we’ll pay the price.  We’ve come too far to let something like that happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rainforest zooms by in a blur.  Cas quickens his pace; I see him creep up in my peripheral vision.  Behind us, the rain seems to rush forward, chasing us like a predator after its prey.  I run faster, pump my arms harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so focused on the path directly in front of me that I don’t notice the lightning bolt descending from the sky until it’s too late.  It strikes the ground just to the left of me in a blast so hot and violent and forceful that it knocks me to the singed earth.  Searing heat bites at my exposed skin.  I choke on the hot air that reeks of smoke and burning foliage.  The clap of thunder that happens at the same time is beyond deafening.  It’s like it’s splitting my skull in two.  The only reason I stagger to my feet and keep moving is because Cas helps me up and guides me forward, away from the advancing wall of rain.  Even then, I’m still so rattled that I can barely see where I’m going, let alone hear the threats all around us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter.  The storm doesn’t care.  I shake my head and force myself to run, following closely behind Cas as he takes the lead and darts through the darkening rainforest.  I stumble blindly over obstacles in the terrain, very nearly losing my balance a handful of times, but I stay steady.  I stay steady, and I don’t slow down, no matter how difficult it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We don’t stop until we blunder past a line of shrubbery and into a clearing.  I almost collide with Cas as he slows, wondering with terror why he’s not moving anymore, and then I turn around and see what he’s staring at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rain has stopped, just behind the shrubbery, like an invisible wall is keeping it out of the clearing.  Glancing around, I realize the </span>
  <em>
    <span>entire </span>
  </em>
  <span>clearing is surrounded by the storm, but none of it is slipping past the shrubbery.  Not the rain, the lightning.  Even the thunder sounds muted, like we’re encased in some type of glass dome.  The only thing that alludes to a hint of the storm is how dark and dismal the clearing is.  Otherwise, it’s perfectly untouched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for one thing.  It’s like a blemish in the midst of a faultless painting.  My stomach churns just looking at it, just thinking about all of the horrible memories associated with it, yet at the same time I can’t tear my wide-eyed gaze away from it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the Cornucopia.  That gleaming golden horn of nightmares.  Which means we’re imprisoned in the clearing where the Games began all those days ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which means we’re ending this right where we started it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no time to lose.  If the storm is surrounding the clearing, then that means the boys from District 2 are on their way, if they’re not already here.  I grab Cas’ hand as the shrill ringing in my ears gradually begins to subside and pull him away from the line of shrubbery.  We cross the clearing, come to a stop at a large tree about halfway between the empty mouth of the Cornucopia and the edge of the glade.  We press our backs to the trunk, just so no one can sneak up behind us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so the agonizing waiting game commences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s too quiet.  The only things I can hear are my own shallow breaths, my rapidly pounding heart, the occasional rumble of muffled thunder.  Cas practically cuts off the circulation in my hand as he squeezes it, but I hardly notice.  I tighten my grip on the hilt of my sword and scrutinize the clearing as best as I can, but it looks abandoned, like no one has set foot in here since the feast.  Surely we can’t have been the first to arrive.  That outcrop was miles away.  Where’s our competition?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flicker of hope sparks in my chest at the thought of District 2 getting caught in the storm.  Maybe, if we’re lucky, they didn’t outrun it.  Maybe any second now, we’ll hear an overhead announcement stating we’ve won.  Maybe there won’t be an epic battle like the Gamemakers seemed to so carefully plan, because maybe the Careers weren’t as fast as they’d anticipated.  That would be the day, wouldn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air is still.  The longer we stand here in complete silence, just waiting for something to happen, my anxiety only skyrockets further.  This doesn’t feel right.  The clearing is far too quiet, far too motionless.  There’s not even a chirping bird to break the uncomfortable hush.  We can’t be the only tributes here.  Too many minutes have passed.  Although, I can’t quite figure out what’s more unnerving: banking on the hope that our competition didn’t survive the storm, or knowing that they’re hiding somewhere in this clearing with us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I spot it.  It’s nothing but a small flicker of movement to my right, near the mouth of the Cornucopia, but I notice it just in time to jerk my head out of the way.  The arrow embeds itself in the bark right beside my ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s one of those moments where I’m too paralyzed with terror to even let out a yelp.  I hear Cas’ clear as day, but the amount of dread that surges through me renders me totally impotent.  My head whips around to the mouth of the Cornucopia, where the movement came from.  There, I see the smaller of the two boys from District 2—though he still must be at least twice my size—standing with a sleek black bow and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s pulling the string back again, and it’s loaded with another sharp arrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That must be what snaps me out of my panic-stricken trance.  I shout for Cas to duck and just manage to do so myself before the arrow whizzes right over us, striking a tree on the far end of the clearing.  What are we supposed to do now?  The Career has the ranged weapon.  He’s just going to keep shooting at us, and we can’t dodge it forever.  Or even if we somehow do, his partner will surely step in next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the nauseating fear pouring through my veins suddenly stops when I watch the boy’s last arrow slip from his grasp and clatter to the ground.  He dropped his only ammunition.  He fumbles to pick it up but can’t quite seem to get a grip on it.  He’s distracted, and currently weaponless.  A window of opportunity has just opened up before my very eyes.  I’m absolutely petrified to take it, but the consequences will be far worse if I don’t.  Deep down, I know that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, that’s what I tell myself as I let go of Cas’ hand and take off toward the inattentive Career.  “Stay here!”  I call to my district partner.  It’s difficult to ignore his cries of protest, but I keep running, and I don’t look back.  It’s now or never.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve just passed the mouth of the Cornucopia, my gaze locked on my target, when the massive weight slams into my side and tackles me to the hard ground.  The force of the impact knocks all the air out of my lungs, makes my sword fall from my grasp.  I hear it clanging against the rocks and out of reach.  When my eyes finally focus and I can breathe again, I see the other boy from District 2—the much larger and bulkier one—towering over me, sitting on top of me, pressing his knees into my ribs so powerfully that I’m afraid he’s going to break them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, I manage to deflect the first punch he throws at my face.  His expression is twisted into an outraged grimace.  I try to kick him off, struggle with all my might to dislodge him, but he’s so much stronger than me.  I barely have the strength to block another hard punch.  It feels like it’s going to snap my arm in half.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m faintly aware of Cas shouting my name.  I risk a glance in his direction and see him hurrying toward us; the sight makes my blood chill to ice.  “No!”  I yell to him.  I can’t bite back a yelp when the Career squeezes his knees into my sides even more.  “Don’t!  I’m fine!  Just stay back there!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I catch a glimpse of the frantic horror shining on Cas’ paling face before the sound of the Career laughing rips my attention back to him.  He looks to his partner, the one with the unloaded bow, and nods his head toward Cas.  “You can have him, Lennox.  I’ll handle the tough talker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart stops working when the smaller boy—Lennox—doesn’t hesitate to drop the bow.  A wicked grin curls onto his lips as he pulls a jagged knife from his waistband.  I think my lungs quit functioning altogether when he brushes past us and stalks toward Cas, and my district partner, who looks like he’s mere seconds away from detonating with fear, spins around and disappears behind the wall of the Cornucopia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly the boy pinning me down—he must be Gadge, then—is the least of my concerns.  I’m seized with pure terror, frozen with overwhelming panic.  My insides twist into knots as I watch Lennox twirl the sharp knife in his hand, as I watch him gleefully pursue the person I promised I would protect.  This can’t be happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas!”  I scream.  My voice wavers as Lennox sweeps around the side of the Cornucopia and out of sight.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cas!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Gadge’s strong hand clamps around my throat, cutting off my broken voice and threatening to crush my windpipe.  “I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you,”  he sneers.  I barely hear him over the hysterical thumping of my heart.  “I’d worry about myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a challenge to breathe.  I take in what little air I can, wheeze out the rest, but I don’t care about my predicament.  I can’t see Cas anymore.  I struggle to crane my neck, to maybe catch a glimpse of him on the other side of the Cornucopia, but there’s nothing.  Every agonizing second that passes only adds to my growing dread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to commend you, though,”  Gadge goes on with a vicious smile.  He doesn’t loosen his tight grip on my throat.  “You two made it to the finale.  That’s pretty impressive for District Nine.  What was your secret?  Good sponsors?  A camp near a river?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grab his wrist, desperately try to pull his hand off my neck, but to no avail.  It’s like he’s made of iron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, whatever.”  Gadge shrugs.  “It doesn’t matter.  All of it was kind of pointless in the end, wasn’t it?  I mean, just look at yourself.  I’m stronger than you are, Nine.  I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish by tugging on my wrist like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a fleeting moment, I’m tempted to reach down to my right pocket, the one that harbors my precious switchblade.  It saved me once before.  Maybe, if I’m careful, I can do it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that thought instantly flees my mind when the pained scream echoes through the air.  The pained scream that sounds like it’s coming from Cas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like reality is shattering around me and the pieces are stabbing me in the chest.  It doesn’t matter that Gadge is constricting my throat.  I’ve forgotten how to breathe entirely.  And what makes it worse is that I can’t see what’s happening on the other side of the golden horn.  I can’t even cry out to my partner to know if he’s okay, to know if he’s still alive.  I’m completely powerless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smirk that creeps onto Gadge’s face freezes the blood in my veins.  “Sounds like it might just be you now, Nine,”  he says.  Tears burn in my eyes.  I didn’t hear a cannon.  He can’t be dead.  He can’t be.  “Sorry it has to end like this, but there can only be one winning district, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there was any air left in my lungs, it’s immediately forced out.  Gadge squeezes my throat even tighter than before.  I can’t breathe, for real this time, and it sends me into a frenzied panic.  I claw at his hands.  I squirm and writhe, desperate to get a gulp of oxygen.  I can feel the pressure in my head building, can feel my chest burning like it’s on fire.  He doesn’t let up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I frantically scrape at the ground, at my pocket, looking for something—</span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>—I can use to my advantage, before he strangles me.  Black spots dance in the corners of my vision.  I gasp and wheeze but no relief comes.  I can’t find the pocket’s button, can’t reach the switchblade.  I don’t have much time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then my numb fingers brush against something even better than the button.  It’s a sharp, heavy rock, and it fits perfectly in the palm of my hand when I fumble to pick it up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grab the side of Gadge’s face and smash the rock into his skull while I still have the strength to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shock of the blow makes him release his deathlike grip on my throat.  The rush of oxygen that fills up my starved lungs as he lets out a horrendous shriek makes me cough and gag and almost forget what’s happening for a split second.  Then I feel the splatters of hot blood on my hands, feel the weight of the rock in my grasp, and realize that Gadge is still perched on top of me.  A wave of nausea washes over me when I see the hideous dent in his temple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t feel sorry for him.  There’s no time.  A hysterical cry slips past my lips as I ram the rock into his head again.  This time he collapses to the ground beside me, freeing me from his hold.  The side of his skull is completely caved in and bloody and awful to look at, so I try not to.  I try not to look at the indentation, or the way his mouth is agape with feeble groans, or the way his eyelids are twitching, or the way his body is growing limper and limper by the second.  No, I can’t look.  I have to get to Cas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m barely in control of my own limbs.  They’re numb and tingly and shaking with adrenaline.  I scramble to pick up the sword I dropped when Gadge attacked me, and I sprint for the side of the Cornucopia as fast as my unsteady legs can carry me.  It’s impossible to suppress the shivers that ripple down my spine when the sound of the cannon rings in my ears.  I know it has to be for Gadge, because when I skid around the corner, there’s still a fight going on, and the mere sight of it terrifies me to my very core.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lennox has Cas by the throat, has him slammed up against the wall of the Cornucopia.  I’ve only just processed what I’m seeing when the Career throws him around and hurls him at the hard ground a few feet away.  Blood gushes from his nose and his pale face is covered in marks and bruises and his left arm is tightly draped over his abdomen and he’s trying so desperately to crawl backwards before Lennox catches up to him.  It all happens so quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then the anger begins to boil in my veins, amidst the flood of adrenaline.  Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m charging at Lennox, and it’s like I’m moving through water.  I can’t seem to get there fast enough.  Time isn’t passing like normal.  It’s only when I feel myself crash into his body that I realize I’ve made it to him, and the two of us tumble to the earth in a hectic scuffle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time I have the upper hand.  Lennox is so disoriented by my tackle that it gives me a fleeting opportunity to plant myself on his waist and try to pin him down, just like the maneuver that I’ve been the victim of.  And it works, for a short while.  He flails his fists, kicks his legs, and I use all the energy I have left to keep him contained.  He gets a couple of hits on me, but I hardly feel them.  When there’s finally an opening, a brief moment where he’s not struggling, I force myself to raise my blade and prepare to finish this once and for all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In reality, I’m sure it only lasts a split second, but to me, it feels like eons.  Lennox snatches my arm and holds it back, keeping the sword away from him.  I try to fight him, try with all my might to drive the blade down, but it’s futile.  It’s especially futile when he twists my arm with the strength of an ox, and white-hot pain shoots through the whole right side of my body.  I can’t bite back a cry, can’t help it when the intensity of the torture makes me lose my grip on the sword.  I barely hear it clatter to the ground yet again before Lennox’s fist collides with my jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much for the upper hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My arm throbs and my head pounds.  Lennox shoves me off him.  I try to reach for my dropped sword through my whirling vision, but the Career is too quick, too strong.  He hauls me to my feet and kicks me in the stomach.  I do everything I can to stay upright as his foot sends me stumbling backwards, against the cold wall of the golden horn.  I don’t have any time whatsoever to catch my breath or even think about fighting him off before he’s on me, pinning me back onto the wall with a grip I can’t escape from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a frenzied glint in his eyes.  It bores into me, makes my heart hammer against my ribs.  Time seems to slip into slow motion when I see him seize another knife from his waistband, sharp and shiny with dangerously serrated edges.  I’m not sure how, but as he reels back to drive the blade into my chest, I manage to catch his wrist and stop him from delivering what would most likely be a fatal stab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’s still a lot stronger than I am.  My arm shakes and trembles as I struggle to keep that sharp blade at bay.  He’s breathing heavily; I think I stopped a long time ago.  He pushes and pushes and pushes, and every time he succeeds in inching the blade closer to me.  I won’t be able to hold him off for much longer.  I risk a glance down at the knife, how close it is to piercing my skin, and I’m so consumed with blinding terror that I almost slip up and let him get me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, out of nowhere, Lennox’s strength wanes.  His body goes rigid.  There’s so much adrenaline pumping through my blood that it takes me a moment to realize the light in his eyes has started to fade, and it’s easier than ever to push the knife away.  The thought doesn’t even cross my mind until he coughs, spraying my face with splatters of blood, and slumps to the ground at my feet.  Motionless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when I see the knife wedged between his shoulder blades.  I look up, and I lock eyes with Cas.  He’s standing a ways back, frozen in a stance that doesn’t take me long to decipher.  I know that stance.  It’s impossible not to.  It’s the one both he and I took on right after throwing knives in training.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saved me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly it’s like the boy lying dead at my feet doesn’t even exist.  I step over him, stride straight toward my district partner.  I don’t care that there’s blood on his lips.  I take his ashen face in my hands and kiss him hard.  I don’t draw back until my lungs begin to burn from lack of air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”  I ask.  I barely recognize my own strangled voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that I’m closer to him, I see just how marked up and bruised his face is.  A steady stream of blood is still leaking out of his nose.  The skin that isn’t broken and red is sickly pale.  I can’t bear the thought of wondering how many times Lennox hit him, though it looks like a lot.  I force myself to suck in a deep breath before I get angry again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure if Cas heard me.  He’s still frozen in place, trembling, staring a thousand miles out, completely transfixed by something behind me.  I don’t even need to look to know what it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s all right,”  I try to soothe, despite my own unbridled fear.  “It’s all right, Cas.  It’s all right.  I’m okay, see?  Everything’s fine.  Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I keep one hand on his cheek, gently rubbing it with my thumb, trying to snap him out of his terrified trance.  When he finally tears his wide-eyed gaze away from the scene behind me, he manages a nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,”  he breathes.  He sounds weaker than I’ve ever heard him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The peaceful silence that falls over the clearing is unnerving and foreign after everything that just happened.  The birds resume their chirping.  Insects hum and buzz.  Thunder rumbles, but calmly and far off into the distance.  You never would’ve guessed that a bloody battle to the death just occurred in a place as serene as this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it still hasn’t quite hit me yet.  Standing here with Cas after our fight with District 2, that is, with both of us very much alive.  Beaten and bruised and rattled beyond belief, but very much alive.  And I’m not entirely sure it would ever really sink in if the voice of Claudius Templesmith didn’t boom overhead, announcing the declaration that I’d only ever heard in my wildest dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to present the victors of the Hundredth Hunger Games: Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak!  The tributes from District Nine!”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For a moment, I have no idea how to react.  There are so many different emotions coursing through me that I don’t know which one to focus on.  Claudius’ voice echoes in my head like a broken record, long after the burst of static from his microphone cuts him off and plunges the rainforest back into its natural silence.  Did I hear him correctly?  Did he really just say what I think he did?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart hammers.  I look at Cas; he looks at me.  He looks just about as flabbergasted as I feel on the inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, without a single word, both of us stumble forward and into each other’s trembling arms.  Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>arm,</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he only wraps one arm around me, but I’m too overwhelmed to care.  I hold him tighter than I ever have.  Tears have begun to well up in my eyes.  I feel him shudder with fragmented breaths and realize he must be crying, too.  I cradle his head.  I bury my face in his shoulder, let the tears spill onto my cheeks, allow myself to shake like a leaf as that glorious realization fully sinks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re alive.  We won the Hunger Games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wipe my face with my shaking hand before stepping back.  Cas looks so exhausted.  He barely even meets my eyes as he heaves an unsteady sigh and I glance around the quiet clearing.  A hovercraft should be coming to pick us up and take us away from this dreadful place.  That’s what always happens when the victors are announced.  So where is it?  I want to get out of here and see my family again and try to put all of this behind me.  Now that I know for a fact that it’s happening and it’s not just a hopeful wish, I’m antsier than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?”  I call to the open air.  It’s uncomfortably still.  I don’t hear the hum of an approaching hovercraft anywhere, and I’m starting to get frustrated.  After everything we’ve been through, they couldn’t have prepared a hovercraft for an immediate extraction?  Where is it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My gaze is locked on the canopy above, watching for any sign of that flying contraption, so I don’t feel the heavy tug on my sleeve until it’s too late.  By the time I realize what’s happening, Cas has already collapsed to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My irritation instantly dissolves into panic.  I dive to my knees at his side.  He’s trying to prop himself up on his right elbow, but it looks like every movement is causing him pain.  He’s breathing heavily.  His pallid face is twisted into a grimace.  I’m so startled and worried and afraid that I can’t even ask him what’s wrong.  My throat has closed up, gone completely dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have to ask.  Slowly, he lifts his left hand, his left arm, away from his lower abdomen.  It comes off coated in a thick layer of crimson blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach clenches.  I feel my jaw drop, feel my mouth hang agape, but no words come to mind through the surge of paralyzing fear taking hold of me.  I fight to curb the tremor in my hands as I dare to grab the bottom hem of his shirt.  All the blood that’s soaked into the fabric makes a horrible squelching noise as I lift it up to get a better look at the damage; I immediately wish I hadn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spanning from just beneath his belly button to the left side of his abdomen is a grisly laceration.  The skin is so torn and mangled that I’m not even sure if I’m looking at skin or muscle or parts of his guts.  Whatever it is, it makes my heart stop, and blood is still oozing out at an alarming rate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground sways beneath me.  It’s like the world is spiraling out of control.  Why didn’t he tell me?  He said he was okay.  He told me he was okay.  Now he’s collapsed on the earth in front of me and in horrible pain and bleeding out and I have no idea how to fix it.  I’m so scared.  Why didn’t he tell me sooner?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ephemeral memories of watching past Games tell me to put pressure on his wound to slow the blood flow, so that’s exactly what I do.  I pull his shirt back down and press on that gruesome injury with my hands as forcefully as I can without hurting him.  Still, the instant I make contact, he cries out and falls back to the ground, his eyes squeezed shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My insides twist into knots when his blood covers my hands in a heartbeat.  Another wave of tears threatens to well up in my stinging eyes as I slide my arm underneath his shoulders and lift him back up, hold him closer to me.  He’s whimpering and panting and shuddering, and it hurts me more than words could ever begin to describe.  “Hey, it’s not that bad,”  I tell him, fighting to put on a smile despite my wavering voice.  “It’s not that bad.  You’re gonna be okay.  Just hang in there, all right?  You’re gonna be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where’s the hovercraft?  It should’ve picked us up by now.  But every time I spare a glance up at the canopy, all I see are leaves rustling in the breeze.  Every agonizing second that passes only strengthens my growing terror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ ragged breaths start to get shallower.  He’s staring up at me with those big bright blue eyes that are just glistening with fright.  His blood is so slippery and so hot, and there’s so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much of it.  It’s like my efforts to stem the flow are completely fruitless.  No matter what I do, no matter how much pressure I put on that gaping wound, he’s still bleeding out in my arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stop the first tear from spilling out of my eye.  “Come on, Cas, stay with me,”  I plead.  “Stay with me.  You’re gonna be okay.  It’s not even that bad.  We’re gonna get you fixed up, and everything’s gonna be fine, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frantic desperation consumes me as I whip my head up toward the sky.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Help!”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>I scream into the silent air.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Help!  He needs help!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>All I hear in response is the echo of my own broken voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This can’t be happening.  Not now.  Not after everything we’ve been through.  Not after all the horrors we survived.  We made it to the end.  We won the Games.  We defied the odds.  It can’t end like this.  No, this can’t be happening.  This can’t possibly be happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m brought back to this terrifying reality when Cas weakly grabs at my shirt, right where my shattering heart is.  “Dean…”  he whimpers.  His skin is losing more and more color by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s impossible to talk without bringing more tears to my eyes.  My throat burns with every word I speak.  “I’m here, Cas,”  I reassure him.  “I’m right here.  I’m not going anywhere.  It’s okay.  Just keep looking at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why isn’t the hovercraft coming to get us?  I don’t know how much longer I can stay composed for Cas’ sake.  I’m breaking.  I can feel it.  The edge in my voice, the tremor in my bloodstained hands, the heavy pounding of my heart.  And what’s worse is I don’t know how much longer Cas has before—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyelids begin to flutter; hysteria floods my system.  “No no no, don’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>close those eyes,”  I plead.  “Don’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>close those beautiful eyes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A sob slips past my quivering lips before I can stop it.  It echoes around the empty clearing, teasing me, mocking me.  I can’t do anything to help him.  Deep down I must know that, but the mere thought of it destroys me.  What if the hovercraft never comes?  What if this is their big grand finale?  Cas dying in my arms while I’m completely powerless to help?  It can’t be.  They declared us the winners.  Both of us.  So why aren’t they helping him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s getting heavier.  His breaths aren’t rhythmic.  He’s still fighting to keep his eyes open, to keep looking up at me, but the light in them is dwindling.  I see it, and it makes me want to scream and sob my aching throat raw.  This can’t be happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Cas.”  The tears come in torrents now.  I don’t bother to stop them or steady my blubbering voice.  “We won.  We can go home.  We’re gonna be neighbors with Bobby, and you’re gonna get into baking, and you’re gonna teach me how to cook, and we’re gonna grow old together and make a ton of new memories to replace all these bad ones.  Remember?  We talked about it.  And it’s actually gonna happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t seem to hear me.  He’s fading, and I’m starting to lose my mind.  My sanity is slipping past my fingertips.  I don’t know what to do.  What am I supposed to do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas, baby, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Please don’t leave me.  I promised I would get you out of here.  I promised I would keep you safe.  I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.  Please don’t leave me.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing will make sense if he dies.  Nothing.  If he doesn’t make it out of here, then neither will I.  Physically, but not mentally.  Not emotionally.  I’ll spend the rest of my life trapped in this arena, trying to save him, trying to figure out how I could’ve prevented this from happening.  And I’d rather die myself than have any of that happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What I wouldn’t give to take his place right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just when I think all hope is lost, when I’m on the verge of complete mental collapse, I hear something in the distance.  A faint rumbling, and it’s not thunder.  I turn my head toward the sky so fast that I almost give myself whiplash, and there, through my blurry and whirling vision, I see it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hovercraft is finally coming to our aid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so overwhelmed with relief that I almost black out.  The monstrous contraption parts the leaves of the canopy and hovers above the clearing.  Slowly, a platform begins to lower from the main body, just big enough for two people to fit on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s all the way on the other side of the clearing.  Is no one coming to help?  Cas can’t walk.  He’s too weak to even draw a full breath.  And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to try.  There isn’t enough time.  I’ll never be able to live with myself if I can’t get him to that hovercraft, to the people that can save him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rush of adrenaline fuels my panic-stricken body.  I take his hand and place it over the wound.  “Keep putting pressure on that,”  I tell him, and to my relief, he actually seems to do it with what little strength he has left.  Then, sucking in a deep breath to calm my frayed nerves, I slide my other arm underneath his knees and lift as hard as I can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I barely last a second before excruciating pain shoots up my right arm, and I cry out.  Lennox twisted it in the fight.  I’m not sure if it’s broken or dislocated or something else of the like, but it’s agonizing to put weight on it.  Dread pours through my veins.  How am I supposed to get Cas to the hovercraft like this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By biting my tongue and battling through the immense pain.  Our escape, his salvation, is right in front of me.  I can’t stop here.  I can’t let my own pain cost my district partner his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every step is unbearable.  My arm throbs with every rapid beat of my heart, but still, I push onward.  I swallow my cries.  I don’t let go of Cas, and I don’t stop until I reach the platform.  I collapse to my knees on the cold metal just as it starts to rise back up into the hovercraft, lifting us out of this awful arena that I know I will be revisiting again in my nightmares.  After everything it put us through, it’s inevitable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, as the platform gets closer and closer to the hovercraft, I can’t help but gaze down at the rainforest that we lived in for almost two torturous weeks.  So many things happened here.  Most of it was harrowing and grim, but there were some pleasant moments, too.  I find myself absentmindedly staring at the lush trees and dense foliage until the edges of the hovercraft conceal it from sight.  The platform clicks into place inside the safety of the contraption, and a rush of air that’s so artificially cooled gusts past me and chills me to the bone.  I can’t suppress a shiver.  So many days of suffering in the heat and humidity of the rainforest made me forget what cooler temperatures feel like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first I’m relieved.  We made it.  We’re inside the hovercraft, out of the arena.  I glance around and see a handful of Capitol attendants wandering about in their pristine clothing and perfect makeup.  I never thought I’d be so happy to be in their company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I look down.  Cas is completely slumped against my arm, and his eyes are closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything happens so fast, yet at the same time, I feel like I’m trapped in a slow motion nightmare.  My lips are just forming his name when a swarm of people are on me, ripping him from my trembling grasp.  For a fleeting, utterly terrifying moment, I think they’re taking him away because he’s dead.  I start screaming.  Sobbing.  Shrieking like I’m being murdered as I scramble after those people who are acting like I’m not even there.  They take my partner into a room on the end of the hovercraft, and a thick glass wall closes behind them.  They’re shutting me out.  I can’t get in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pound on the glass with my fists.  I scream at the top of my lungs, watch on in horror as the people inside the room lay my district partner’s limp body on a metal table.  Only when I realize that they’re wearing spotless white coats do I make the connection that they must be doctors, and Cas must not be dead.  They must be trying to save him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gradually, my voice goes raw, throat starts stinging, and I quiet down.  I sink to my knees at the base of the glass wall in defeat and watch as the doctors dart around the room in a frenzy, gathering all sorts of equipment that I don’t know the purpose of.  They lift Cas’ head and slip a clear mask over his nose and mouth.  They stick a bunch of needles and tubes into his arm.  They cut open the bottom half of his shirt to access that gruesome wound.  Even on the other side of the glass, the sight of it makes my churning stomach do somersaults.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They start working, but I can’t see what they’re doing, can’t hear what they’re saying.  There are so many doctors clustered around the table.  The only thing I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>see is the side of Cas’ ashen face.  His closed eyes, his slightly parted lips that aren’t nearly as colored as they used to be.  He lost so much blood, and it breaks my heart that I can’t be in the same room as him right now, holding his hand, telling him it’s going to be okay, even though he wouldn’t be able to hear me.  All I can do is watch, completely helpless, as the Capitol doctors fight to save his life.  And I’m putting all my trust in their ability to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I almost whirl around and attack when someone gently touches my shoulder, but the adrenaline subsides when I realize it’s only an attendant, not someone who wants to kill me.  With a smile that looks a bit too forced, she hands me a glass filled with a peachy liquid, then turns around and leaves before I can thank her or ask her what this is.  Obviously a drink of some sort, but the sweet-smelling tang wafting off it almost makes me gag.  I suppose after a strict diet of water and small snack foods, I’ve lost my appetite for luxurious Capitol fares.  Still, I force myself to take a sip and immediately crinkle my nose in distaste as the uncomfortably saccharine flavor passes over my dry tongue.  I set the drink aside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I retract my fingers from the glass, I finally notice just how bloodstained my hands are.  It’s caked beneath my fingernails, embedded into the creases of my hands, stained my skin crimson.  I wouldn’t necessarily be bothered if it was my blood, but it isn’t.  Looking at it nauseates me, makes another flood of fear take control of me.  This isn’t my blood.  I want it off.  I wipe my hands on my pants, frantically try to clean out my fingernails, but it’s pointless.  Most of it has dried on.  It’s staying there, a constant reminder of my district partner’s torment, whether I like it or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctors are still working away on the other side of the glass wall.  There are even more tubes sticking out of Cas’ arm now.  He has to still be alive, has to be worth the effort of saving, because why else would there be so many Capitol doctors gathered around him?  For a moment, for the first time in what seems like forever, I start to feel hopeful.  He’s going to make it.  The doctors will make sure of it.  They have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I flinch when I catch a glimpse of someone in the reflection of the glass.  Except when I look closer, I realize it’s me.  My heart sinks.  The person staring back at me looks nothing like me.  I look completely feral.  Like an animal once domesticated and then left to fend for itself in the harsh wilderness.  And I suppose in a way, that’s exactly what happened.  The wild glint in my eyes makes me sick.  I’ve become someone I don’t recognize.  No wonder everyone on this hovercraft is acting like I don’t exist.  If I were in their shoes, I’d avoid me, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My attention is ripped away from my frightening reflection when I see a flashing light coming from beyond the glass wall.  Some of the doctors are scurrying around, even more frenzied than before.  Anxiety seeps into my bloodstream.  I try to peer around them, try to see what’s happening inside the room, and I freeze when I spot a monitor on the far wall.  It’s the one that’s flashing.  There are a few lines sliding across the screen.  They once looked like jagged mountain ranges, but now they’re entirely flat.  Somehow, although I wish I didn’t, I know what that means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Terror clutches me with icy fingers, trickles through my body like bitter tendrils of frost.  The doctors are hurrying to gather more equipment, but I barely notice them.  All I can focus on are those flat lines, those mocking flat lines, and the painfully reposeful look on my district partner’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hysterical screams that rise up out of me echo around the hovercraft.  I pound on the glass again.  I want to be let in.  I want to help.  He can’t be dead.  I refuse to believe he’s dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This can’t be happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The attendants are trying to restrain me.  I kick and flail and punch and scream my head off.  Tears are pouring down my cheeks.  My ears ring with the sound of my own shrill shrieks.  I don’t want to be restrained.  I want to help him.  I promised I would get him home.  And we’re so close.  We’re so close to going home.  Yet here I am, watching him die on the other side of a glass wall that I can’t get past.  I am, once again, powerless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the attendants manages to lock me into a tight hold.  I can’t flail.  Can’t fight back against him.  All I can do is scream for Cas, hoping and praying that by some miracle, he hears me and doesn’t leave me to walk this world alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the needle jabs me between my shoulder blades, and I slip into a quiet slumber.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The gentle sound of rain rapping against a windowpane pulls me into consciousness.  I try to force my eyes open but find it’s an arduous challenge.  My eyelids are so heavy, almost like something is holding them shut.  And it takes but a moment to realize that not only do my eyelids feel as solid as bricks, but so does my entire body.  It’s like my muscles are made of hardening cement and there’s molasses slogging through my veins.  I can barely move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I manage to open my eyes enough to allow me to see a tiny sliver of my surroundings.  I’m lying on a comfortable mattress, tucked beneath silken sheets, wearing nothing but undergarments.  The room I’m in is dark and silent, aside from the rain drumming against the glass.  I strain to turn my head.  There’s a large window to my right that’s coated with raindrops.  It looks like the middle of the night outside.  Except, through the speckles of rain, I see glimmering lights in the distance that light up the night sky.  Even through the dense fog clouding my mind, I know it must be the skyscrapers of the Capitol, twinkling like fireflies on a dark evening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a mask over my nose and mouth.  It’s pumping cool air down my throat every time I take a breath.  I must not have been breathing, or at least not very well, while I was out.  I struggle to lift my arm and see that a series of tubes are embedded in my skin.  Although it’s nauseating to think about all those needles, I can’t help but focus primarily on how little my right arm hurts.  It feels as good as new.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An idea strikes me then.  I wiggle my left fingers, try to bring my hand into my sliver of vision.  A dull wave of excitement courses through me when I realize there’s no pain with my movements.  There’s not even a scar anymore to remind me of what happened to it.  It’s like I have an entirely new hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thunder rumbles outside and rattles the windowpane.  I’m already exhausted, completely worn out by merely turning my head and lifting my arms.  I don’t know what they injected into my system, but it’s still streaming through my blood.  I can’t move.  I can barely think a coherent thought; it should probably come as no surprise to me when I pass out again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time I wake, I feel even worse than before.  My throat is dry and scratchy.  There’s still a mask over my face.  My stomach churns, muscles feel like the cement in them has finally hardened.  Judging by the soft orange hue painting the ceiling above me, though, dusk must be approaching.  So it looks like another whole day has passed.  I thought the Capitol’s elaborate medicine would make me feel better by now, or at least not like a walking corpse, but apparently not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faintly, I hear a conversation.  I don’t think I’m completely conscious because it sounds like I’m underwater.  The voices are garbled and muffled.  I force my eyes open, but only just a crack, and see the indistinct outlines of two people standing at the foot of my bed.  I fight to clear the fog in my brain, struggle to wake myself up.  As my fuzzy vision slowly comes into focus, my spirits begin to lift when I realize one of them looks like none other than Bobby Singer.  I start to feel a smile pull on my lips until I notice the person he’s talking to is wearing a white coat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A white coat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could I forget?  How did I not make the connection when I looked at my clean hands, my perfectly polished and filed nails?  They were no longer stained with his blood, and yet all I could register was the fact that my own pain, my own insignificant injuries, had been fixed.  Guilt claws at my heart.  How could I forget about something so horrible?  While I’ve been lying in bed, dazed and marveling at my recoveries, he’s probably been put through so many distressing tests and surgeries and who knows what else while the Capitol doctors desperately try to save his life.  If he’s even still alive, that is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dread weighs down on my chest.  Suddenly I’m thankful for the oxygen mask strapped to my face.  I hadn’t even considered the grim possibility because not a single tribute has died at the hands of the Capitol doctors, but there’s always a first for everything.  His wound was mortal.  The mere thought of it paralyzes me, like a toxic venom pouring through my veins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I must fidget or draw a sharp breath or something else of the like.  Bobby glances over and realizes I’m conscious.  Whatever amount of solace I felt when I first saw him at the foot of my bed is overshadowed by my fear of Cas’ fate.  Still, all I can do is watch as our mentor abandons his conversation with the doctor and approaches the side of the bed.  Even in the dim lighting, it’s impossible to miss the small smile adorning his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, son,”  he says, his voice surprisingly soft and soothing as he clasps my hand between his own.  It’s oddly comforting.  “How are you feeling?  Doc said you’re making a pretty speedy recovery after everything that happened out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t care about my recovery.  I care about knowing whether or not my district partner is alive.  But my throat is so shriveled that I’m not even sure if my voice works anymore.  I open my mouth, try as hard as I can to croak out a word or two, just enough so that Bobby understands what I’m saying.  I need to know; all I manage to rasp is a feeble “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cas."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a fleeting pause before Bobby nods.  “He’s alive,”  he says.  “He’s okay.  Don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The relief that crashes down on me is overwhelming.  I fog up my oxygen mask with a heavy sigh of alleviation, one that makes my sore shoulders shudder.  It’s like the weight of the world is lifting off them.  It’s like I can finally breathe normally again for the first time in a number of insufferably long days.  Cas is alive, and I never thought that such a short, simple sentence could cause the pressure in my chest to dissipate as quickly as it did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before I can get too excited, Bobby goes on.  “You’ll be able to see him soon,”  he reassures me, giving my hand a pat.  “For now, though, you should get some more rest.  We’ll talk later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have a chance to protest before a cold liquid shoots out of one of the tubes and into my vein.  It knocks me out instantaneously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I eventually come to yet again, this time I think it’s for good.  Of course I don’t know for certain, but the fact that the oxygen mask is gone, as well as all of the tubes in my arm, gives me a conceivable hunch.  I manage to open my eyes all the way without any difficulty.  The sluggishness, the painful fatigue, is nonexistent.  It’s a blissful sensation, but it doesn’t stop my heartbeat from quickening as I sit up and glance around the room.  I’m alone.  The silence rings in my ears.  But that’s not what freezes me in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m back in my room in the Training Center.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long while, I’m completely dumbstruck, rendered speechless by the mere sight of this room.  Have I been here the whole time?  No, I can’t have been.  Surely I would’ve recognized it, but then again, it’s been weeks since I last set foot in here.  Still, it only takes seconds for all of the memories to come flooding back, just as clear as the time they occurred.  My outburst after interview prep with Bobby.  All the showers where I was afraid of pressing a wrong button on the complicated wall panel.  My meltdown the night before the Games began.  Cas comforting me, spending the night with me, curling up into my side while we tried to fall asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart aches.  The room is so empty without him, so cold and lonely.  His absence after weeks of being in his company is nothing short of torture.  Is he okay?  Did the doctors fix him?  I hope so.  I desperately hope so.  The temptation to get out of bed and risk leaving my room to find him starts to become more and more favorable the longer I ponder it, but I know I shouldn’t.  I’m sure I’m on lockdown.  My every move is undoubtedly being monitored by the Gamemakers or doctors or other Capitol officials, and if I try to leave, who knows what could happen?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rules subsequent to the Games have always bothered me, but experiencing it firsthand is an entirely different story.  I understand that the few days between the end of the Games and the celebratory interview are crucial.  Most of the tributes they pluck from the arena are so broken and destroyed—some, of course, are horribly injured—that this time is necessary for the doctors to put them back together and make them look human again.  But after that?  Why put them on lockdown?  I haven’t known the taste of freedom in weeks, and glancing out the spotless windows and gazing at the sunny day outside makes my skin itch.  I want a breath of fresh air, and not air that’s being generated by the trees of a battle arena.  But I can’t get it, because I’m positive that I won’t be able to leave this room even if I tried.  We won the Games, yet we’re still at the mercy of the Capitol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although, now that I think about it, I suppose that’s just another painful reminder that no matter what happens, no one—not even the victors of the precious Hunger Games—can ever truly escape the iron fist of the Capitol.  It makes me sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I peel the silky blankets off me and swing my legs over the bed.  The floor is pleasantly cool beneath my bare feet.  When I start to stand, there’s a split second where I’m afraid I’m going to lose my balance and topple over, but I find that my legs are steady and bear my weight well.  That’s always a good sign.  Whatever the doctors did to me while I was out must’ve worked a treat.  I feel strong, rejuvenated, like a whole new person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like I did before the Games stripped me down and tore me apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doorknob jiggles.  The sound is so sudden and jarring that it makes my heart leap up to my throat.  Panic surges through me.  Should I not be up and wandering around?  What if my treatment isn’t done like I anticipated?  And I don’t have clothes on, either.  A thousand different thoughts storm through my head as the door starts to open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, much to my relief, another familiar face strides into the room.  Just looking at him, perceiving his presence, makes my knees wobble, makes a smile twist onto my lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allow me to be the first to say congratulations,”  Crowley says with a smirk as he shuts the door behind him.  He hasn’t changed a bit; I couldn’t be happier about that.  A little familiarity after so many days of fear and uncertainty is certainly a warm welcome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think I surprise him—I even surprise myself—when I rush forward and wrap my arms around him.  It’s a little strange, especially considering I’m borderline naked, but at this point, I couldn’t care less.  The gentle comfort that envelops me when my stylist gives me a reassuring squeeze is more than I could have asked for.  I guess I missed him more than I thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s so good to see you,”  I say when I let him go and take a step back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right back at you.”  Crowley flashes me a wink.  “And might I say, you’re looking rather up to the mark, all things considered.  Doesn’t seem like the prep team and I will have a whole lot of work to do before tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The joy of seeing my stylist after so many days slowly starts to deflate as his words sink in.  The celebratory interview is </span>
  <em>
    <span>tonight?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I hoped I would at least have another day to recoup, if I was lucky.  Apparently that’s not the case.  Apprehension seeps into my bloodstream at the thought of being out on that stage again, under the blinding spotlights, while the roaring crowd screams and cheers their lungs out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be nervous,”  Crowley says, thankfully interrupting my derailing train of thought.  “All the focus will be on you this time.  Just you and your victory.  No one is going to be rooting for your death anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leave it to Crowley to be so blunt and direct that it somehow, in a bizarre way, lifts my spirits.  I can’t suppress a weak chuckle at his remark, but it does nothing to stop the flood of nerves from taking control of me.  I know the crowd won’t be rooting for my death anymore.  That’s definitely a plus.  But thinking about having all the attention, all the spotlights, on me makes me want to burrow under my blankets and hide away until the interview is over.  They’re going to bring up sensitive topics.  I know they will.  The people of the Capitol have grown so used to seeing and cheering for violence that they don’t ever stop to wonder how it might affect the poor tributes who barely escaped the arena with their lives.  They think it’s entertaining.  They think everything is entertaining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas crosses my mind as the interview continues to plague me.  At first the thought of him is comforting, but I’m more galvanized by the idea that pops into my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen Cas?”  I ask my stylist, abruptly changing the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For what feels like centuries, Crowley merely stares back at me, his expression indecipherable.  The only thing I can hear among the suffocating silence is my own pounding heart.  My anxiety continues to strengthen until he finally speaks.  “Yes,”  he answers.  “He’s next door with Meg.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I see him?”  I’m chomping at the bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time Crowley’s response is immediate.  “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so taken aback by his brusque rejection that for a second, all I can do is blink at him.  Then my blood begins to boil, simmering inside my veins.  “Why not?”  I demand.  If Cas is up and about and just next door, why can’t I see him?  Is it against some halfwitted Hunger Games rule?  That only fuels the fire of my growing frustration.  I need to get out of this room.  I need to see him, to know if he’s really okay, to hug him and kiss him until he can’t breathe.  The last time I saw him, I thought he was dead.  I need to see him and reassure my paranoid mind that that’s not the case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because that’s what we were told,”  Crowley says calmly.  For some reason, the fact that he’s so okay with separating Cas and me makes my stomach tighten, makes my fingers curl into fists.  “You’ll see him soon, Dean.  Trust me.  Right now we need to focus on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes every last bit of restraint I have in me to keep myself from lashing out at him.  I don’t want to be angry, but I can’t help it.  It’s like everyone and their mother are trying to prevent me from seeing my district partner.  After everything we’ve been through, don’t I at least deserve to see if he’s okay with my own two eyes?  Even if it’s just for a brief moment?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently not.  Crowley starts talking again, though I’m too irked to give him my full attention.  “I’ll get an Avox to bring you some food,”  he says.  “Eat up and get showered, and then I’ll send the prep team in.  After that, it’ll just be you and me again before the interview.  Does that sound okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are so many things I want to spit back at him, but I bite my tongue and nod instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s that.  Crowley turns and leaves the room, making sure to close the door behind him, sealing me away in silence once more.  I wait until I hear his footsteps fading away before I tiptoe to the door and place my hand on the doorknob.  I give it a turn, disappointed but not very surprised when I find it’s locked.  Of course.  Why wouldn’t it be?  I really am a prisoner in my own room.  They certainly don’t want me wandering around before showtime for whatever reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stalk to the end of the bed and sit down on the plush mattress, crossing my arms over my chest.  I’m sure I look like a pouting child, but this is far from fair.  Seriously, who would I be hurting if I left this room for a short time?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter.  I can’t do anything about it, and soon enough, an Avox comes into the room with a tray of steaming hot food.  I thank him as he hands me the tray and leaves just as quickly as he arrived.  The smell permeating the air is absolutely divine.  It makes my mouth water, makes my stomach grumble.  I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve eaten.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really </span>
  </em>
  <span>eaten, and not just receiving nutrients the doctors pumped into me through those tubes.  I’m famished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before me sits a massive plate of noodles swimming in a creamy white sauce.  Long cuts of tender chicken lay on top.  There’s also a roll of bread, a cup of sliced oranges, a glass of water, and what looks like a chocolate chip cookie.  Probably freshly baked.  Just gazing down at the meal makes me worried I’m not going to be able to finish it.  No doubt my stomach shrunk in the arena, what with only eating snack foods for weeks.  I haven’t eaten a meal this large in what feels like ages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, here’s hoping I don’t get sick onstage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I chow down like a starved animal.  At times I try to slow my pace, to make sure I don’t upset my stomach, but it’s nearly impossible.  The food is like magic to my deprived taste buds.  All of it.  The noodles, the chicken, the bread, the oranges, and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>cookie.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Oh, the cookie.  How I missed dessert.  For a while, I start to forget about the prepping and the interview and every bit of stress that comes with it.  I eat until I’m afraid my stomach is going to split open, and there’s still plenty of food left on the plate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I tear off a piece of the fluffy bread and dip it in the white sauce, I’m suddenly struck with a thought that almost makes me drop it onto the noodles.  Why did both Bobby and Crowley hesitate when I asked them about Cas?  They assured me he was alive and well, but their hesitancy to speak at first makes my paranoia believe otherwise.  My brain goes into overdrive in an instant, and I can’t stop it.  What if he’s dead?  What if he didn’t make it, and both my mentor and my stylist didn’t want to tell me to, what, protect me?  Keep me from going insane?  They have to know I would find out one way or another, and insanity would most definitely happen regardless.  But I have a hard time believing they would lie to me like that.  It doesn’t seem like them.  Then why did they wait so long to answer me when I asked if my district partner was still alive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not very hungry anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep breath to soothe my frayed nerves and calm my shaking hands, I get up and head to the bathroom.  Maybe, with enough luck, a hot shower will distract me and make me feel marginally better about what’s going on.  I turn the sleek handle, strip down the rest of the way, and step under the gloriously scalding stream of water.  The temperature makes my skin red and blotchy, but I don’t care.  Breathing in the steam is invigorating.  Washing off weeks worth of sweat and muscle tension and pure anxiety—even though I’m sure the doctors hosed me off while I was out—is a blissful experience.  I blindly press buttons on the panel and soak myself with a citrus foam, a mass of sweet-smelling bubbles.  There’s even a button that makes high-powered jets gush beneath my feet, massaging them until they tingle.  I’m disappointed I didn’t find that one before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how long I spend in there, letting the hot water and various shower amenities cleanse me of the muck from the arena, but I do know that when I finally step out and dry off with a soft towel, I feel like a walking blob of gelatin.  It’s amazing.  And I smell fantastic, of course.  Can’t forget about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I notice there’s actually a small smile on my face as I stride over to the fogged up mirror.  I take one end of the towel and wipe away the moisture.  But the second I see that smile reflected in the glass, it vanishes without a trace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look like myself.  Obviously.  But the last time I stared back at my own reflection was on the hovercraft, and I looked like a rabid, feral animal ready to attack anything that moved.  Now, I look nothing like it, and the sudden change makes a rock drop to the pit of my stomach.  There are no scars, no cuts, no blemishes on my face at all.  It’s like everything has been erased.  My hair is so healthy and clean that no one would ever guess how matted and disgusting it was just a few days ago.  My left hand is as good as new.  My right arm is fully healed.  They completely fixed me while I was unconscious.  Scrubbed me clean, removed my scars, made everything about me perfect, pristine, flawless.  It’s like I have an entirely new body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only things that still truly belong to me—the old me—are my eyes.  Those green-flecked eyes that have seen so much.  They may have polished my skin and destroyed every mark inflicted by the Games, but they couldn’t do anything to erase the affliction shining behind my eyes.  The pain and the trauma will always remain.  I can do my best to hide it, but I’ve always been told that the eyes are the window to the soul.  And my soul is damaged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult for me to believe that the boy staring back at me is the boy who survived the brutality of the Hunger Games.  He doesn’t look capable of it.  I have to pinch the skin on my arm, just to make sure I’m not dreaming.  When nothing happens, I know that somehow, against all odds, this is real.  It’s not just some vivid hallucination.  I should probably feel more excited than I do, considering I’m not dead like I was so terrified I would be, but I can’t help but fret about what comes next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interview is a given.  It’s mandatory.  I’ll have to sit on that sweltering stage and relive the nightmares from the arena while the Capitol cheers.  Then it’ll be time to get on a train back to District 9, which is, of course, incredibly reassuring.  I’ll finally get to see my family again.  Charlie, too.  Thinking about them and hugging them and seeing their faces makes my heart swell.  It’s been so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But after that?  What’s to follow once we return home?  My life has been dictated by structure, a strict schedule.  I worked almost all day, every single day, to put food on the table for my family.  And these last few weeks have been completely dominated by the Capitol.  What am I supposed to do with a fancy new house and so much money that I’ll never have to worry about us going hungry ever again?  Discussing possible hobbies with Cas was one thing.  It was speculation.  We weren’t entirely sure if we were going to make it out of the arena or not.  Now it’s certain, and I don’t know what to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m scared to realize I’m not sure who I am anymore.  I was a farm boy.  I was a protective older brother.  I was a tribute in the Games, a pawn, a sacrificial lamb for the Capitol’s entertainment.  But what about now?  I find myself gazing into the eyes of the boy in the reflection, desperately trying to figure out who he is.  Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I will always be one of the boys who won the Hundredth Hunger Games.  Nothing is ever going to change that, no matter how hard I try.  I will always be a celebrity to the Capitol.  I will always be a victor to District 9.  And I will always be a murderer to the other districts who lost their tributes to the cruel game of entertainment.  I’ve earned many labels over the course of a few weeks, but I can’t find one that makes me feel like the normal human being that I am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about my life after makes me realize something I wish I hadn’t.  Next year, I will be a mentor, just like Bobby.  I will have to help, train, get to know the tributes from District 9 and hope and pray they make it out of the arena alive.  Every single year.  Every year I will have to return to the Capitol and participate in the Games, just on the other side of the cameras.  Every year.  All over again.  My stomach twists into knots.  I might be sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.  I know that.  The celebratory interview is creeping closer and closer by the second, and I’m far from ready.  But it’s impossible to push those harrowing thoughts from my mind when my entire life is forever going to be haunted by the Capitol and their appalling excuse for amusement.  I will never escape the Hunger Games.  Not really.  I thought I did when I survived the arena, but I was naive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, the Games have only just begun.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Chapter 34</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>My prep team is just as idiotic and materialistic as I remembered.  I sit in a chair they stole from the dining room while they pluck any overgrown eyebrow hairs, make my skin perfectly smooth and glowy, fix me up for the approaching interview.  They certainly seemed overjoyed to see me again and showered me with hugs and energetic affection before they started, but it was difficult for me to match their enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s especially difficult to tune out their incessant chitchat.  While they work, they banter and share stories about what they were doing during the Games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d just woken up from a nap when those mutts attacked!”  the one with the neon green hair exclaims, like she’s still somehow thrilled by it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was downtown during the feast!  Everyone was screaming!”  the guy with the sparkly gold tattoos declares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their remarks are painfully trivial and aggravating to listen to since I was actually participating in that barbaric event, but I do my best to bite my tongue and stay silent as they continue to make me look presentable.  They’ll be done and out of my hair soon.  And they seem to adore me, so as much as I detest every single word that’s coming out of their mouths, I’d feel bad for snapping at them.  I just shut my eyes and try to tune out the worst of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, the members of my prep team put the final touches on my face, gush at how amazing I look, and then scurry out of the room.  It doesn’t take long for Crowley to return; seeing him only makes my crippling worries about Cas resurface with a vengeance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stylist seems to know I wasn’t too fond of our last conversation, either.  He unzips the sleek garment bag in his hands without a single word, fueling the uncomfortable silence hanging over our heads.  Occasionally he spares me a glance, one that I can’t quite figure out the meaning of, and it irritates me.  Why is he looking at me like he’s on the verge of shouting all his secrets at the top of his lungs?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My blood boils with frustration and my heart races with anxiety as he hands me my outfit for the interview.  Still, no words are exchanged between us as I stumble into the clothes.  The silence gnaws at my churning stomach.  I want to say something, ask him more questions, but nothing civil comes to mind.  It’s disheartening.  All throughout the initial preparation for the Games, I thought I could trust him.  Now I’m skeptical of his intentions, and I wish I didn’t have to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I finish getting dressed, Crowley brings in a mirror so I can see how I look.  I’m almost shocked at the gentle simplicity of it all.  Instead of an eye-catching, extravagant suit, I’m clad in a pristine white dress shirt and smooth black pants.  There is no bold or vicious makeup painting my face.  Just some soft highlights here and there.  There isn’t an outrageous amount of product in my hair.  Instead it’s mildly combed with a few small strands hanging over my forehead.  I look pleasantly normal, like a regular human being dressed up for a special occasion.  I start to wonder why my stylist chose such a natural and unpretentious look for the interview, but then I realize there’s no need to attract attention anymore.  I’m no longer in a pool of other tributes fighting for sponsors.  And Crowley must’ve remembered that simplicity is much more my style.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to still be on my side, right?  He always was.  He came up with the best outfits I saw all preparation.  He told me he would be rooting for me.  And he believed in me, which was something I never expected from a Capitol stylist.  I don’t want to believe he would lie to me.  It hurts to even think about.  I just wish I could put all my faith in him now like I did before the Games began, but something about this whole situation feels wrong.  It’s making me nauseous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be great out there, Dean,”  Crowley says, finally shattering the heavy silence.  “I’ll be down front again, so if you ever get nervous, you can look at me.  Don’t think you’ll need to, though.  You’re bound to be an expert at this by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t think of anything to say in response.  All I can do is stare back at my reflection, tormented by the swarm of uneasy thoughts rampaging through my mind.  I just want this night to be over.  I want to go home.  Is that too much to ask?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just when I think my time with Crowley is over, he suddenly starts, as if he remembered something so startling it actually elicited a reaction.  “Oh, I almost forgot,”  he says, digging around in his pockets.  He retrieves a silver necklace not a second later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My silver necklace, the one with the locket dangling from the chain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mere sight of it is like a punch to the gut.  The floor sways beneath me.  I’d almost forgotten myself, but how could I?  It was my lifeline in the arena, my token of hope.  Somehow, seeing it again feels like I’m greeting an old friend for the first time in years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The doctors took it off when they started fixing you up,”  Crowley explains before I even have a chance to ask.  “They were going to throw it out along with your clothes from the arena, but I took it off their hands.  I paid good money for it, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, I can’t hide a smile of my own when he flashes me a devious smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without another word, my stylist clips the necklace around my neck.  There’s a fleeting moment where I think we’re back in the catacombs beneath the arena, where he first gave me this necklace, and a rush of dread surges through me.  But then I blink, and I’m staring at myself in the mirror again, in the safety of my Training Center room.  Nothing can get me here.  At least nothing tangible, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silver locket brings the entire outfit together.  It’s strange how something so small and so simple can have such a large impact.  Part of me doesn’t like the weight it bears, all the horrible memories it experienced along with me, but I know it’s likely I wouldn’t be standing here without it, as crazy as it sounds.  No, this little thing has a special place in my heart.  I’m grateful Crowley got it back from the doctors before they threw it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet another thing he did for me when he didn’t have to.  Maybe he really still is on my side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re ready,”  my stylist says with a content smile.  “Go ahead and take the elevator down to the gymnasium.  I’ll be there shortly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now I’m overwhelmed with a wave of confusion.  “You’re not coming with me?”  I don’t want to go by myself.  I’m sure I still remember where everything is in this building, but the thought of going alone makes my stomach twist and turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a few things to take care of first,”  Crowley says.  “I won’t be long.  Just head on down and wait for me there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.  I draw a deep breath—though it does nothing to calm my nerves—and finally leave the room I’ve been confined in.  That’s the reassuring part.  A change of scenery.  But when I look up and glance around at the rest of the ninth floor apartment, the place I feel like I haven’t seen in eons, an emotion I can’t quite discern gnaws at my insides.  Is it bittersweet?  Utter resentment?  I have no idea, but whatever it is, it hurts.  I duck my head and hurry to the elevators, trying not to listen to the sound of my footsteps echoing around the dark and empty apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator is even worse in terms of uneasiness.  The doors slide shut as soon as I press the button, sealing me in a cramped tube of pure silence.  The blood roars in my ears.  I can hear my own pounding heart as I’m taken down below, down to the gymnasium where we trained all those weeks ago.  For a moment I’m convinced I’m in an entirely different universe, one where time passes at the pace of a snail.  How has it not been years since this all began?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The training gymnasium as I once knew it is now desolate and barren.  I step out of the elevator, and a cold draft breezes over me, chills me to the bone.  The lighting is eerily dim.  The air is even quieter than the elevator car.  And there’s absolutely nothing in this massive area.  No training stations.  No weapon racks.  No practice dummies.  Nothing.  They’ve all been removed.  I’m the only object, the only living soul, in what feels like the whole world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing that reminds me that I’m not alone is the muffled cheering of the crowd above me.  They’ve constructed the stage for the interview above the gymnasium, by the sound of it.  Yes, I see a newly built platform a few feet away, designed to lift us up from beneath the stage for a dramatic reveal.  Everyone will be involved this time.  The prep teams, the escort, the stylists, the mentor, and the victors.  I can still smell a faint trace of sawdust from when they put it together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My apprehension only continues to rise the longer I’m in this bleak gymnasium by myself.  Where is everyone?  I thought at least someone would be here by now.  Maybe Bobby, or my idiotic prep team, but there’s no one, and it’s making me nervous.  Did I miss a memo?  Was I supposed to go somewhere else first?  No, Crowley told me to go to the gymnasium.  Here I am.  So where’s the entourage?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I know it, I’ve started to pace.  I don’t like being here.  It reminds me of the dreaded days before the Games.  It reminds me of all the fear and the hopelessness.  I don’t like the muffled sounds of the crowd directly above me.  They’re anticipating the start of the interview.  They’re awaiting their next round of entertainment, this time exclusively starring me and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heartbeat quickens.  I start chewing on my nails without even realizing.  If I’m down here and ready to go, then why isn’t Cas?  Surely Meg and Crowley operate on the same schedule.  He should be ready, too.  He should be here with me while we wait for the rest of our team, while we wait for the interview to begin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My worried mind instantly cooks up a plethora of unpleasant scenarios.  I can’t do anything to stop them.  What if he really is dead, and everyone is upstairs trying to figure out how to break the news to me?  The rational part of me knows that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.  I would devolve into a broken mess in a matter of seconds.  Not exactly professional interview material.  No, if they were going to tell me something like that, I’d like to think they’d do it immediately to give me time to process it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then why am I still alone in this cold and dark and sinister gymnasium?  The irrationality begins to take over.  I lose control of my breathing.  I pace faster and I bite my nails harder, and what makes it worse is that I don’t see any end in sight.  Not if I’m forced to remain trapped in this prison while the waiting crowd cheers and roars just above me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart is beating so loudly, echoing inside my pounding skull, that I don’t hear the footsteps until I feel a presence behind me.  But I don’t have time to turn around before the soft voice shatters the still silence around me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I whirl around so quickly that I almost lose my balance.  Reality seems to crash to a screeching halt, because there, standing a few yards away, is my district partner.  The color has returned to his face.  There’s a small smile on his lips, gentle happiness shining in his bright blue eyes.  He looks so strong and healthy and beautiful that for a moment, all I can do is stare at him, mouth agape, heart hammering out of my chest, wondering if he’s actually here in front of me, alive and well and livelier than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My wonders last but a second.  It’s been long enough already.  I dash forward and leap into Cas’ arms just as the first tear slips down my cheek.  Instantly it feels like I’m home, like everything’s finally all right in this awful world.  I cling to him like a touch starved child, trembling so violently that I can barely breathe.  I squeeze my eyes shut, bury my face in his shoulder, try to fight back my tears when he tightens his arms around me and holds me so tenderly, so protectively, like he’s my own little safe haven.  And he is.  He really is.  I never realized quite how sheltered and at home he made me feel until he was taken from me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But thankfully it wasn’t forever.  I don’t know what I would do if that was the case.  I don’t even want to think about it.  All I want now is to relish the warmth of his comforting embrace, the rhythmic beating of his heart.  Yes, it’s beating.  It hasn’t stopped.  They fixed it.  They saved him.  They brought him back to life, and they gave me back the vital piece of me that I’d been desperately missing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I lost you,”  I whimper into his shoulder.  My shaking fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, never wanting to let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My throat closes up when Cas nestles his own head into the crook of my neck.  His breath fans my skin, makes my arms prickle with goosebumps and my chest ache with longing.  “I’m okay,”  he says softly, delicately.  “I’m okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Words can’t describe how much I’ve missed the sound of his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If we had the time to stand here for hours, locked in this soothing embrace, I would gladly do it.  But I want to look at him, see his healthy face and warm smile and glimmering blue eyes.  That desire is the one and only thing that finally makes me release my ironlike grip on him and lean back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hands find his cheeks.  They’re soft and warm beneath my touch.  He holds onto my wrists with his own trembling hands.  For a moment, all we do is stand in silence, gazing at one another, taking in every feature of each other’s face.  He must be looking at the spots where my cuts and scars were, the ones that have vanished without a trace.  I’m captivated by the smoothness of his skin, the healthy color it’s obtained, how much happier he looks than when I last saw him.  He looks so exhilarated.  I haven’t seen him like this in ages, if at all, and it makes my heart swell, makes a cheerful grin of my own light up my face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And looking at him now, both of us alive and healed and overjoyed to be in one another’s presence again, I realize something else that adds to the overwhelming delight in the air.  My grin widens.  I’m afraid I might combust as I gently shake him, as a relieved laugh begins to bubble up in my throat, because I never thought I’d get the chance to say these words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We did it."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas starts to laugh too, his eyes brimming with tears, but I cut him off with a kiss I’ve been waiting for for days.  It’s pure magic the instant my lips collide with his.  Butterflies erupt in my stomach, make my chest flutter.  Adrenaline pours through my blood when I feel Cas’ hands on the back of my neck, his fingers grazing the skin, softly grabbing at my hair, but this time it’s the good adrenaline.  The kind of adrenaline that’s irresistibly addictive.  The kind of adrenaline that always makes you crave more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We really did it.  We survived the Hunger Games.  Two unprepared, frightened farm boys from District 9 bested the odds that were given to them, managed to outlive twenty-two other tributes, fought as hard as they could to keep their promises to one another.  And somehow, it worked.  Despite everything, Cas and I came out on top.  We won.  We’re the victors of the Hundredth Hunger Games.  It doesn’t even seem real.  It’s like I’m living in a blissful dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I know that, as surreal as reality is right now, I’m not dreaming.  My heart is beating too fast, and Cas is here, his nose smushed into my cheek, his warm lips pressed against mine.  He’s real.  Everything is real.  After all the horrors and the torment, we’re finally going to be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I couldn’t have done it without him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone starts clapping, slowly.  The sound is so abrupt and startling that I draw back and whip my head in the direction it’s coming from.  Cas does the same, yet neither of us lets go of one another.  Not yet.  I’m not ready.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, leisurely striding toward us and a proud smirk lighting up his face, is Bobby Singer.  He doesn’t stop clapping until he’s standing right in front of us, and even then, his smirk only seems to grow brighter.  “Well, I do believe congratulations are in order,”  he says.  “Good job, boys.  I had a feeling you could pull it off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile back at him, grateful to see him when I’m not drugged up, but not before Cas releases his hold on me and moves to throw his arms around our mentor.  The latter seems confused for a second, but he doesn’t hesitate to return Cas’ tight embrace.  I’m quick to hug him when Cas steps back, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,”  I tell him, relishing the strength and security of his embrace, and I really do mean it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby pats me on the back as I start to let him go.  “What are you thanking me for?”  he says with a chuckle.  “You two did all the work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you got us sponsors,”  Cas pipes up.  “Stuff that really helped us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you needed my help on that end.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby’s words throw me for a loop.  We didn’t need help getting sponsors?  I have a hard time believing that.  Everyone needs help getting sponsors unless they’re a brutal killing machine.  The Capitol citizens don’t like spending exorbitant amounts of money on gifts for a tribute who has a slim chance of winning.  But still, some part of me is intrigued by what our mentor said.  Did he really not have to do much in terms of getting us sponsors?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have time to dissect the meaning of his sentence.  A high-pitched shriek of excitement suddenly echoes around the gymnasium.  My heart leaps to my throat at the shrill sound, but when all three of us turn to see its source, I can’t ignore the small rush of happiness that courses through me, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My boys!”  Rowena cries, toddling toward us as fast as she can in her high heels, arms outstretched and face alight with joy.  She scoops both Cas and me into a hug so powerful that it squeezes all the air right out of my lungs.  She’s a lot stronger than she looks.  “I knew you could do it!  Oh, I’m so proud of you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, don’t strangle them,”  I hear Bobby say, but I can tell he’s smiling.  There’s a hint of amusement in his tone.  “They didn’t survive the Games just to get crushed to death by a hug.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As comforting and uplifting as Rowena’s bear hug is—I’m honestly shocked by how happy I am to see her again—I’m glad Bobby said something.  It’s difficult to breathe with the force of our escort’s arms tightly wrapped around us, but she lets us go the instant she realizes we’re struggling to get air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry!”  she exclaims.  “I couldn’t help it!  I’m just so happy to see my two victors!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good to see you, too,”  Cas says with a laugh.  I only manage a grin, both because I’m out of breath and because I’m not quite sure what to say.  The reality of the situation is still trying to sink in.  I don’t know how to react to it all.  At least everything that’s happening is good.  I suppose I have that going for me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if our gymnasium party couldn’t get any bigger, I see the elevator doors slide open, and out walks Crowley and Meg, closely followed by both of our prep teams.  The disappointment that clouds Meg’s expression is as clear as day, even from where I stand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, you made me miss the big reunion,”  she complains, hitting Crowley on the arm.  “I told you we should’ve come down sooner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They needed some space,”  my stylist retaliates.  “And don’t hit me.  You know I’m sensitive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to chuckle at their banter, but I’m more interested in what Crowley said about space.  He and Meg must’ve planned everything.  Reassuring me that Cas was alive but being oddly suspicious about the delivery.  Dressing me up in my interview attire and sending me down to the gymnasium by myself.  Making me drown in my anxious thoughts for an agonizingly long while before finally letting Cas join me.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The big reunion.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  In the grand scheme of things, I have to admit it was a clever plan, but it caused me a lot of unnecessary stress, stress that I didn’t need after the harrowing events of the Hunger Games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, as caring and helpful as our stylists are, they’re still from the Capitol.  They still like their drama and entertainment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Crowley, Meg, and the prep teams join us in the center of the gymnasium, I can’t help but glance around at everyone.  Bobby, our mentor, staring up at the ceiling, where the muffled roar of the crowd only continues to grow louder.  Rowena, our escort, who looks like she’s on the verge of crying happy tears or bursting with delight, possibly both.  The stylists, exchanging looks with one another, giving Cas and me reassuring nods.  We’re all together again.  Two weeks of torture and separation later, and we’re all standing in the same room once more, working in alliance.  I can’t deny it’s a wonderful feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our team is reunited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ceiling begins to rumble with the thunderous cheering of the crowd.  The start of the interview must be close.  I can practically hear Caesar Flickerman’s loud voice and boisterous laugh as he tells the audience jokes to warm them up.  My palms grow sweaty in an instant, and I don’t exactly want to wipe them off in front of everyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My suspicions are unfortunately confirmed when Bobby claps his hands together.  “All right, it’s almost time,”  he announces, turning his attention to Cas and me.  “Remember, the first part of the interview is always watching the highlights of the Games.  It’s gonna be difficult, but just try to push through it.  It’ll be over before you know it.  Then there’ll just be some closing questions, like before, and you’re home free.  Stay strong.  You can do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rock drops to the pit of my stomach.  I forgot all about watching the highlights.  Normally it’s a three hour production, and the victors are forced to sit through all of it, watching everything they endured from the very beginning.  And of course, it’s going to be broadcast to all of Panem.  Everyone gets the privilege of watching this monstrosity again, as if once wasn’t enough.  Now I’m even more nervous than before.  I can barely keep myself steady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The prep teams step onto the platform first.  They flash Cas and me beaming smiles and wave at us as they’re lifted up toward the ceiling, toward the stage above.  When the crowd’s cheers and shouts begin to amplify, I know our teams must be taking the stage.  Which means the interview is commencing.  Which means there’s no turning back now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley and Meg go next.  Crowley gives a nod of reassurance while Meg offers a sly thumbs-up.  The hoots and hollers they receive is deafening.  Well, they did design an array of fantastic outfits.  They must be well known in the Capitol now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Rowena takes her place on the platform, she grabs one of Cas’ hands and one of mine and gives them a comforting squeeze.  “You’ll be great!”  she tells us.  “Remember to smile!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the platform lifts her up and out of sight.  She must love the vigorous cheers she’s getting from the crowd that’s only growing more and more excited by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only Bobby remains.  He doesn’t say anything else, but the look he sends our way, accompanied by the single nod of his head, speaks louder than words.  He knows what to expect.  He’s been through this before.  And if he did it, and if he believes we can, then there’s nothing else to do but trust his judgment.  He helped us survive.  I don’t think I can ever doubt him again after everything he did for us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The audience goes wild the moment Bobby is brought to the stage.  The lights hanging from the ceiling begin to sway and jostle from the uproarious applause and what sounds like stomping.  He kept two tributes alive with no help from any other previous victor.  That’s quite a feat.  He must be famous in the Capitol by now.  They eat stuff like that up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only seconds remain before Cas and I have to step onto the platform to join everyone up on the stage, but time seems to slow to a standstill when I turn to meet his gaze.  The crowd may love and adore the members of our team, but I know they’re waiting for us.  The victors.  The stars of the show.  I wonder if I look as pale and sickly as I feel on the inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure which of my many nervous tics gives away how terrified I am—maybe it’s my obviously trembling legs—but Cas is quick to slip his hand into mine.  Either he doesn’t notice how disgustingly sweaty they are, or he just doesn’t care.  “You ready?”  he asks, almost breathlessly.  His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t seem half as anxious as I am.  I don’t know how.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shake my head, squeezing his hand as tightly as I can, like that’s somehow going to make everything better.  But in a way, it does.  At least partly.  It’s enough to get me to draw full breaths, anyway.  “Not at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a twinge in my stomach when the corners of his lips curl up into a smile.  “Me neither.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hold onto his hand for dear life as we take our place on the platform.  I don’t know why I’m so nervous.  I’ve done this before, and that was when I was competing against twenty-two other boys.  Now it’s just Cas and me.  I shouldn’t be this on edge.  This is supposed to be a night of celebration, a night where we’re finally safe and not being hunted down like animals.  We have an adoring crowd, a mass of people cheering for us.  This is supposed to be fun.  This is supposed to be a celebration of our victory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So why does it feel like everything but?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The platform starts to rise.  My heart stops, throat closes up.  It’s nearly impossible to swallow the lump forming in it.  I’m not sure if I can do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just before we reach the stage, Cas leans over and presses a kiss to my temple.  A tender gesture to remind me that I’m not entirely alone.  He’s right here with me, glued to my side, hand squeezing back against mine, and he’s not planning on going anywhere.  No, I’m not in this alone.  I have him.  From the very beginning, I always have, whether I realized it or not.  And I don’t think I’ll ever stop being grateful for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s insane to look back on.  We walked into this catastrophe together, and we’re going to walk out of it together.  But this time, it won’t be as two strangers, terrified of what awaited them in the faraway Capitol, the looming Games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’ll be as the two unlikely victors from District 9.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Chapter 35</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Only two chapters left D:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The stage lights are so bright and blinding that for a moment, all I can discern is the booming roar of the crowd.  It makes my chest vibrate, rattles the floor beneath my feet.  That alone is terrifying enough, and my nerves only worsen tenfold when my eyes adjust and I see just how many people are crammed into the audience, cheering for us, completely losing their minds over our appearance.  The crowd stretches on for miles.  There are so many people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it weren’t for the deathlike grip I have on Cas’ hand, I don’t think I would be able to walk forward like a normal human being.  My legs shake and my head spins, but I try to focus on holding onto him, how calm and poised he seems to be.  Deep down, I know he’s anxious—I recognize the glint hiding behind his eyes—but he’s not carrying himself that way at all.  He looks collected, composed, entirely comfortable with what’s going on.  Then there’s me, the nervous wreck who’s barely keeping his balance.  Maybe a big smile will conceal my inner turmoil.  It’s worth a shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar Flickerman is at the front of the stage, waiting for us with a delighted grin on his face.  I blanked out most of the walk from the platform—I can’t hear anything other than the deafening crowd—so I’m startled back to reality when he gives each of us a brief but tight hug.  The audience, of course, goes insane at this interaction.  Caesar only laughs it off and makes a witty remark that I can’t process.  There’s too much going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two velvety sofas sit behind us, facing away from the crowd and toward a large screen where, without a doubt, the highlights of the Games will be broadcast.  Looking at them makes my insides twist and turn—we’ll be forced to sit there for hours and relive some of the worst moments of our lives—but right now, with how violently my legs are trembling, I’ve never wanted to sit down more.  I hate standing in front of this massive audience when a stiff wind could knock me over at any second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas gives my hand a subtle squeeze—he’s still here with me—as Caesar welcomes us and the crowd.  Something about these past few weeks being quite the adventure.  Something about how excited he is to be standing here with us.  I think he even congratulates us on our victory, which elicits a thunderous cheer from the audience.  I’m not sure.  All I’m doing is smiling and fighting to keep my food in my stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Caesar finally gestures for us to take a seat on the velvety sofas, I’m worried I’m too quick to plop down and lean back against the plush cushions, but the relief is instantaneous.  It’s impossible for me to suppress a heavy sigh, one that makes my shoulders shudder, as Cas sits next to me and Caesar takes his place on the other sofa.  Cas sits so close that our legs are touching, and he wedges our interlocked hands between them.  Out of sight for the audience, but for me, it’s just as reassuring as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready to get started?”  Caesar asks us, that same beaming smile still lighting up his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course not.  I don’t want to watch a three hour highlight reel filled with death and suffering.  Living through it once was more than enough.  Watching the other tributes die, fighting to keep Cas and myself alive, was terrible the first time around.  Now we get the pleasure of doing it all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As ready as I think we’ll ever be,”  Cas answers with a laugh, but even he can’t hide the fact that it sounds nervous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, no one seems to notice, or care, for that matter.  Caesar tells the crew to start the video, and as the stage lights begin to dim, a hush falls over the rambunctious audience.  Right, because watching it as it happened apparently wasn’t enough for them.  They don’t want to miss a single second of the highlights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart starts racing as the Capitol seal flashes on the screen.  I can hear every thumping, rapid beat in my ringing ears.  I don’t want to be here.  I can’t watch this all over from the beginning.  How have past victors done this?  And most of them do it alone.  I can’t even bear the thought of sitting here by myself during the highlights.  Even with Cas right next to me, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand, I want to get up and run.  Flee the stage before the food I ate prior decides to make a reappearance.  I can feel it rolling around in my churning stomach.  I try to swallow, but it’s to no avail.  And it only gets worse when the video really begins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thirty minutes or so focus on the events before the Games themselves.  They show the reapings again—and, of course, heavily cover the moment I volunteered for Sam—before transitioning into our arrivals to the Capitol.  The parade, everyone’s training scores, and the interviews.  Seeing the faces of the other tributes makes me rigid, makes my throat tighten with stifled tears.  They’re all dead, and whoever edited the highlights together decided it would be a fantastic idea to put some upbeat music beneath the video.  That just makes looking at them, alive and well, so much worse than it is already.  They have no idea what’s to come in the following days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The urge to run away and hide grows stronger than ever when it’s time to replay the highlights from the arena.  Not even holding onto Cas’ hand can soothe my rising distress as they show detailed coverage of the bloodbath.  They show Cas and a few other boys taking off and dashing into the forest the moment the gong sounds.  They show me frantically running around looking for him, screaming his name, only to get chased off in the opposite direction by the boy whose face I never wanted to see again.  Much to my relief, they don’t show the whole chase, seeing as the brutal murders occurring at the Cornucopia are much more interesting to them.  Watching every barbaric death breaks off another piece of my aching heart.  And we’ve only just begun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the bloodbath, I shouldn’t be surprised when the attention focuses on me and my quest to find Cas.  They did show him running as far as he could from the Cornucopia and then hiding up in the tree I eventually found him in, but apparently my side of the story just oozes quality entertainment.  I risk a glance over at Cas as they show every single detail, right down to my little breakdown the very first night.  He doesn’t let much emotion shine through his stoic expression, but I know he’s fighting it off, as am I.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wish the video would end now before he sees what happens during the feast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything turns into a blur as I mindlessly stare at the screen, willing myself to remain calm, to remain emotionless.  They show the deaths that happen, then almost immediately return the attention to Cas and me.  When I nearly keeled over of dehydration.  When we barely escaped the acid rain with our lives and found our first hideout.  The soft, quiet moments where we would just talk and try to forget what kind of nightmare we were trapped in.  Despite the apprehension still coursing through me, I can’t help but chuckle at our interactions.  It’s pretty obvious I had feelings for him, even back then.  My mannerisms around him, the way I looked at him.  I’m sure the Capitol and everyone else watching realized it long before I did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all fun and games until our run-in with the poor boy from District 12, the one who ate the poisonous berries.  Everything goes downhill from there, and fast.  Watching Cas get bitten by that snake for the second time is like having someone rip my heart out with their bare hands.  The convulsions, desperately trying to get him to that new hideout with the curtain of vines, not knowing what to do to save him.  The adrenaline starts to kick in, as if I’m actually there all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the audience behind me gushes and weeps over Cas telling me he likes me—I think Caesar even sheds a tear—I want nothing more than to shrink into my shoulders and disappear.  I know what’s coming next.  It’s all my racing mind can think about.  There’s a small, painfully bittersweet smile on Cas’ face before the announcement of the feast, but it quickly vanishes when I set out to find the Cornucopia.  He must know what’s coming, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to shut myself down, try with all my might to numb my senses, but it’s pointless.  Not a single second of the feast is skipped over.  The audience is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, which also means every punch, every crack, every whimper and cry of pain is able to be heard loud and clear.  I can’t bring myself to look at Cas as he watches past me get beaten to a pulp.  I can barely look at the screen myself.  The audio alone is enough to chill my blood to ice, to drag me back to that terrifying moment where I thought for sure I was going to die.  And it never seems to end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I flinch when my own agonized scream echoes through the silent air.  Cas is holding onto the hand he just watched get stabbed; he squeezes it tighter than ever.  I spare him a fleeting glance to avoid looking at the screen.  All the color has drained from his face.  He looks so stunned, so speechless, so utterly pained and upset, and it hurts me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stop a tear from streaming down my cheek when the killings begin.  I stare at the floor, desperately try to tune out those awful noises, but I can’t.  Cas draws a sharp breath when there’s a thunk—the boy with the spear.  But what’s worse are the animalistic cries coming from my thrashed throat, the horrible sounds of what I did next.  I wince every time I hear that switchblade piercing the chest of the boy who was already dead.  My lip quivers.  I shut my eyes, but that just makes another tear spill onto my cheek.  I dare to open them again and accidentally catch a glimpse of the screen, of my bloodstained hands and my feral, overwrought face.  It’s difficult to suppress the pitiful whimper trying to slip past my trembling lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I barely register the cheering of the audience as they watch me stumble back to the hollow with the supplies I picked up.  Every part of me is so numb that it hurts.  I want to cry, but our reactions are being broadcast alongside the highlights.  I want to scream, but that might be considered improper.  I want to curl up into a ball next to Cas, bury my face in his shoulder, hide from the cameras that are undoubtedly displaying my tears and distress to the entire country, but a victor shouldn’t be so upset over the deaths of their opponents.  They should be happy that they’re alive and forget about the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whoever came up with that mindset needs to be shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve retreated so deeply into my mind that I almost start when Cas turns and rests his chin on my shoulder, leans his forehead against the side of my neck.  His breaths are shallow and ragged, and they fan my skin.  At first I think he’s just trying to comfort me after that terrible ordeal—and a great wave of solace washes over me at his touch—until I feel a hot tear soak through the fabric of my shirt.  I don’t hesitate to lean my head on top of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The audience goes absolutely insane over the first kiss.  I even feel heat rushing to my cheeks, feel a faint trace of a smile trying to shine through my deadened expression as I glance up at the screen again, but whatever does arise lasts a short spell.  I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to sit here and watch our story play out.  It doesn’t even feel like us.  It’s like we’re watching complete strangers participating in another Hunger Games.  How did we ever manage to do the things we did in that arena?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, I suppose the need to survive can do things to a person.  Grim things that seemingly have no consequences until you take the time to look back on them.  Or, in our case, </span>
  <em>
    <span>forced </span>
  </em>
  <span>to look back on them.  And no matter what happens, we’re always going to be famous for what we did.  Nothing will ever be erased or forgotten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mind goes blank, numbs every part of my aching body.  I barely pay attention to the next section of the video.  Most of it consists of other tribute deaths and conversations I had with Cas.  The only time I’m ripped back to reality is when the muttation scene comes on.  The frantic running, the cliff, the waterfall, the raging river where I almost drowned.  Cas has been sitting back up for a while, but the moment we watch ourselves jump into the river, he takes in a shuddering breath and starts to pale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What happened while I was unconscious is more heartbreaking than I could’ve possibly imagined.  I look dead.  Completely dead.  Waterlogged and drowned on the riverbank that Cas dragged me onto.  At first he shakes me, pats my face, says my name over and over, but when I don’t respond, his terror skyrockets in a heartbeat.  His voice tremors, starts to rise in growing panic.  He keeps shaking me, clinging to me, desperately trying to wake me up until he’s screaming hysterically.  Tears pour down his cheeks.  I’ve never heard such an utterly terrified, primitive sound come out of him like this before, and it only gets worse the longer I remain unconscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he must remember what he told me in the arena, about that technique he saw in another Games.  He stops screaming—though it does nothing to calm his frenzied breathing—and leans the side of his head over my mouth.  Checking to see if I’m breathing, I presume, and the fearful expression that passes over his distressed face tells me I’m not.  He holds his hand on my chest.  A whimper slips past his lips.  But then he manages to control his terror long enough to do the things he told me about.  Breathing into my mouth, pressing on my chest.  At first it doesn’t seem to be working, and it doesn’t take long for his frantic screams and cries and sobs to return.  Just watching it, seeing him in so much pain and overwhelming fear, is like the worst torture I’ve ever been forced to endure.  He really must’ve thought I was dead.  And when I look over and see him sitting next to me, tear-filled gaze downcast and lip quivering at the sound of his past self trying to revive me, I know why he was so broken up about it for so, so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I let go of his hand, but only to wrap my arm around his trembling shoulders and hold him close to me as this horrible scene finally draws to an end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how we remain for the rest of the video.  Him nestled up next to me, my head leaning on top of his.  We watch more of our conversations, our kisses that never fail to make the crowd gush.  When the two boys from District 10 eventually get taken out by the ones from 2—and brutally, as I suspected—I’m caught between feeling giddy that this awful video is almost over and absolutely horrified to watch the final showdown.  I don’t want to watch Cas almost die in my arms again.  It was devastating enough the first time.  But alas, I have no choice, and that will surely make for a dramatic ending in the eyes of whoever edited this together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a split screen during the fight.  One showing my struggle with Gadge, and the other showing Cas and Lennox.  I now see what happened to him, what caused that gruesome injury on his abdomen.  It looks like he managed to avoid and deflect a handful of the slashes and attacks that Lennox threw at him, but the one time he stumbled backwards and almost lost his balance, those fleeting seconds gave Lennox an opening.  He took his knife and sliced a gaping laceration in Cas’ lower abdomen.  It ripped his shirt, and a heavy stream of blood came spilling out in an instant.  That’s when the horrific scream of agony, the one I heard while trapped under Gadge’s hold, happened.  It still chills me to the bone now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the fight flies by in a blur.  Still wrapped under my arm, Cas’ already wide eyes widen when he watches me essentially beat Gadge’s skull in with a rock.  It makes my stomach churn even more than when it happened.  Then there’s my own fight with Lennox, and Cas saving my life, and the announcement of our victory, and the audience going wild behind us, but they immediately quiet down and fall deathly silent when they see the Cas on the screen collapse to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I thought by this point in the video, I would be so numb from all the death and destruction that watching this again wouldn’t affect me as much.  But I was dead wrong.  If anything, it’s even more gut-wrenching the second time around.  My Cas sits up and stares at the screen, his brows ever so slightly furrowed with disquiet and his lips parted as past me begins to spiral.  Desperately trying to stem the blood flow.  Begging him to stay with me.  Screaming to the sky, screaming for someone to help.  Completely losing my mind at the thought of him dying and leaving me alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t handle looking at the screen.  Reliving this again is nothing short of torture.  But when I glance over at my Cas, alive and well, and see how distraught he is by my growing hysteria, I realize I can’t look anywhere without inflicting pain upon myself.  There’s no escaping, no hiding from this mess, and I just wish the cameras would turn off so I could duck my head and let the tears that I’ve been trying to suppress finally fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas doesn’t move a muscle, not even when they show me pounding on the glass wall separating us on the hovercraft, screaming my lungs out.  He just looks dazed.  Tormented by watching my anguish, watching the doctors frantically move around his own near-lifeless body.  I wish there was something I could say or do to remind him everything’s okay now, but I’m afraid that the slightest movement, a single word, could shatter the fragile wall keeping my sanity intact.  So I stay motionless, too, and shut my eyes and wait for this nightmare to be over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When an uproarious round of applause rings in my ears, I figure it must be safe to return to reality.  I open my eyes, a flood of overwhelming relief crashing down on me when I see that the screen has gone dark.  It’s done.  It’s finished.  I reach over to rub Cas’ arm, my throat stinging and burning with stifled tears, but he’s still so stunned that it’s like he doesn’t even discern my touch.  When he finally breaks his stare with the dark screen and turns his head to look at me, the numbness that clouds his expression, glazes over his eyes, makes my heart ache so much that I’m convinced it’s being torn to shreds inside my chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no time for me to offer him reassurance or even attempt to compose myself.  The platform beneath our sofas suddenly begins to spin, turning us and Caesar around so we’re facing the massive, cheering audience.  Now comes the actual interview portion, I presume.  Fantastic.  It’s not like Cas and I are both still shocked and disturbed by being forced to relive our trauma all over again or anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Capitol people really have no understanding of how the human psyche works, do they?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My my, that was quite the experience,”  Caesar remarks as the crowd slowly starts to settle down.  “My heart was racing just watching it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes every last bit of strength I have in me to muster up a feeble laugh of agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, I have to ask,”  Caesar says, leaning forward, making every word long and drawn out for effect.  “How does it feel to be the victors of the Hundredth Hunger Games and the fourth Quarter Quell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, of course, elicits another round of hoots and hollers.  I look at Cas, hoping he somehow knows how to answer Caesar’s question—I sure don’t—but he’s still so stunned and speechless that all he’s doing is blankly staring at the sea of people before us.  I’ll have to answer, and quickly, because the air is teeming with anticipation and everyone is waiting for our response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to swallow the lump in my throat.  Here’s hoping my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as I’m worried it will.  “It feels surreal,”  I manage to say.  “After everything that happened, I still sometimes have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That must’ve been a good answer.  A collective sigh rises from the crowd, and Caesar smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you do,”  he agrees with a solemn nod.  “You two certainly faced a lot of frightening challenges in the arena.  Tell me, what kept you going through the worst of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least he’s not asking us questions that might trigger a bout of unpleasant memories.  The video did enough of that on its own.  Maybe Caesar knows it, too.  Maybe he’s trying to help us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, discussing events from the arena when all I want to do is get on a train and finally go home is taxing.  But the sooner begun, the sooner done, I suppose.  I draw a deep breath and fight to retain my somewhat poised composure.  “The thought of being able to see my family again,”  I say.  Then I spare a glance at Cas, reach over to give his leg a soft pat.  “And because I couldn’t bear to lose him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar clamps his hand over his chest, over his heart, but I’m more focused on the faint trace of a smile that starts to show on Cas’ face.  After what feels like centuries, he breaks his rigid posture and gently rests his hand on top of mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same goes for me,”  he says quietly, looking at Caesar, who I’m afraid is going to fall out of his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We have to wait a moment for the host to gather himself before continuing with the interview.  “Might I say, I don’t believe we’ve ever had a pair quite like you emerge from the Games,”  he remarks.  He still has to fan his face as he talks, probably to dry the tears glistening in his eyes.  “I mean, I could just </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>how much you cared for and trusted each other in the arena.  It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before.  Rather moving, if I do say so myself.  What do you think, folks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd erupts with a deafening cheer as Caesar turns to them.  While they’re distracted, I just barely squeeze Cas’ leg to get his attention.  When he glances over, I mouth and ask if he’s doing okay.  In response, he gives me an indistinct mix between a shrug and a nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar’s focus, as well as the audience’s, is back on us within seconds.  I suppose we’ll have to wait until we’re on the train to really talk.  Hopefully it won’t be much longer.  I’m starting to sweat under the sweltering stage lights and the pressure of everything regarding this whole interview.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, Castiel,”  Caesar begins, raising an eyebrow.  A flicker of apprehension shines behind Cas’ eyes, but he stays calm.  “Since we’re on the topic of your soul-stirring relationship, I do believe you have some explaining to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a painfully extended moment of silence where essentially everyone except Caesar is beyond perplexed.  Cas looks at me, a nervous frown adorning his face, but I don’t know how to help.  I’m just as confused as he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About what?”  Cas asks, a hesitant tone lacing his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caesar pauses to really let the mystery sink in before he elaborates.  “About what you told me during our first interview together!”  he laughs.  “You said you would let us know if you found someone you fancied.  And, if I’m not mistaken, it looks like you did long before our little chat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know why I’m the one to blush.  Cas is the one being put on the spot.  He manages a weak chuckle, clearly uncomfortable, and glances between both Caesar and me.  “Yeah, I suppose I did,”  he says.  “But I couldn’t exactly say anything about it right then and there.  I told you it would be bad luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You certainly did,”  Caesar agrees, “but I’m starting to think that whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad luck </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing is a hoax.  Just look at you now!  You’re the victors!  So much for bad luck, am I right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the crowd quiets down following Caesar’s excited exclamations, he starts to ask us about the multitude of injuries we obtained and the different ordeals we endured in the arena.  Though he doesn’t linger for very long on each topic, I still hate talking about my dehydration scare, Cas’ bitten leg, my stabbed hand, all the horrible things I’ve had enough of.  Both of us answer in short bursts, hoping to get past this as soon as possible, and thankfully, Caesar seems to be going along with it.  He merely makes acknowledgements about our responses and moves onto the next topic, occasionally turning to the crowd to ask for their opinion.  Of course, that usually comes in the form of loud cheers and rounds of applause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m just beginning to think we might escape this interview without having to discuss something distressing when Caesar’s expression suddenly dims, becomes somber.  “Now, Castiel, I didn’t want to have to bring this up,”  he says, his voice low, “but I’m dying to know.  How does it feel knowing you’re going home when six years ago, your dear older brother never got the chance to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there was any stage fright left in my system, it immediately dissolves into irritation and unease.  It’s like the entire crowd disappears when I see the color drain from Cas’ face, when I notice him tense up and stiffen.  He looks so confounded and taken aback.  What I wouldn’t give to jump into this conversation and steer the topic away from something so upsetting, but it’s too late.  Cas is already answering, and his voice is so quiet and so timorous that just listening to him makes my racing heart ache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It still hurts,”  he murmurs.  He looks like he could burst into tears at any given moment.  “I think about him a lot, thought about him every day when we were out there.  I miss him.  But I’m just trying to be happy that my family didn’t have to lose anyone else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air is so still and quiet that you could hear a pin drop.  Caesar, moving as silently as a mouse, spares a glance at the audience, and then at me.  I wonder if he can tell how angry I am that he dug up such a sensitive question when he’d been doing so well all night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he reaches over to clasp Cas’ shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.  I can’t figure out if his sympathetic expression is genuine or just a facade.  “You’re very brave for going through all of this,”  he says, “and I think I speak for everyone when I say I’m terribly sorry for you and your family’s loss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right.  Maybe, if anything, I believe Caesar, but there’s no way anyone else in this city feels remorse for what happened to Cas’ brother.  And the crowd’s noises of condoling agreement make my blood boil so hot that my face must be as red as a tomato.  I can’t even stand to look at them.  It makes me sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Cas nods, acknowledging Caesar’s words, I see his lip begin to quiver.  I rub his leg, find his hand, hold it between both of mine, pray to whatever higher power there is that the interview is almost done and we can get off this awful stage before both of us start crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, much to my overwhelming relief, Caesar sounds like he’s wrapping things up.  He congratulates us on our victory yet again, gushing about how much we deserved it, because according to him, we were always his favorites.  While his praise is flattering, I no longer have the energy to act like I want to be here.  I can mull over his compliments later, in the silence and security of the train.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I almost stand up when Caesar thanks us for joining him, but I’m glad I don’t.  He abruptly starts to talk about something else.  “All right, before you leave, I have one final thing to show you,”  he says, directing our attention to the screen once more.  My adrenaline spikes as it turns on.  Just thinking about what he could be preparing to show us makes me want to run away before he has the chance.  I’ve seen enough.  I just want to go home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“While you were getting ready for tonight,”  Caesar begins, “we decided to conduct a little poll with the audience.  There were quite a few kisses shared between you both that left everyone breathless, including myself.  Definitely including myself.  There were too many to count, really, but that got us thinking.  Which ones were the crowd favorites?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The instant he finishes speaking, the screen turns on and displays all the different times I kissed Cas or he kissed me.  Heat rushes to my cheeks when I see how many there are.  Caesar was right.  I tighten my grip on Cas’ hand, and when I glance over at him, I see a near-imperceptible smile pulling on his lips.  Amid his flushed face, too, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We managed to narrow it down to the top four,”  Caesar says with a beaming grin.  “Believe me when I say this was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The initial delight that coursed through me at the sight of those blissful moments with Cas quickly vanishes when the full meaning of Caesar’s words sink in.  Crowd favorites?  Top four?  They put all of these kisses to a stupid vote?  I’m so flabbergasted by their audacity that I almost miss the moment that landed in fourth place.  According to the people, that is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looks like the fourth place winner is the time I kissed Cas after he told me how he saved me from drowning.  A whopping five percent of people voted for it.  Most of the audience cheers, but a very small amount boos.  Probably part of the five percent who voted for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Third place, coming in with an eleven percent, is when I kissed Cas after the big showdown.  After he saved my life again.  More cheers echo in my ringing ears.  I can’t believe this is actually something that’s happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Second place has twenty percent of the voters.  This kiss was the one </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>the big showdown.  It was so full of fear and uncertainty that I’m kind of surprised it didn’t take first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, I probably should’ve seen first place coming from a mile away.  With a massive sixty-four percent majority, the screen displays the very first time we kissed, after I barely escaped the feast with my life and Cas made his miraculous recovery from that snake bite.  The audience absolutely explodes at the sight, at the announcement of the winner.  The crowd favorite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While people were dying and we were fighting for our lives, they were picking out their favorite kisses.  I don’t even know how to react anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relief surges through me when the anthem finally plays.  Caesar rises, shouting our names at the top of his lungs, declaring us the victors for the umpteenth time, and when we rise with him, he gets between us, grabs our hands, and hoists them high into the sky.  The crowd goes crazy.  They chant our names, scream and wave, throw little gifts and trinkets and flowers onto the stage.  They’re so exhilarated and deafening that I don’t notice the president taking the stage until she’s standing right next to us.  I’m sure I would be a bit more starstruck if she wasn’t in charge of the country that’s perfectly okay with sending children to slaughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a little girl with her, carrying a velvet pillow with two gleaming golden crowns on top of it.  With a smile, one that almost looks cordial, the president takes one of the crowns and gently places it on Cas’ head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Congratulations, Castiel,”  she says, her voice smooth and even.  I barely hear Cas murmur a thanks in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know why I get so anxious when the president takes the next crown and moves to settle it on my head.  I didn’t do anything wrong.  I’m one of the winners of her precious Games.  Still, as she offers me another smile that for some reason sends shivers down my spine, I find it difficult to look her in the eyes as she stares at me.  The crown is cold against my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Congratulations, Dean,”  she tells me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t say a single word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s that.  Caesar bids the audience farewell, then turns to give Cas and me another set of quick hugs.  Oddly enough, some part of me is going to miss him.  Despite everything, I can’t deny he’s an excellent host.  Although, this won’t be the last time I see him.  No, there’s the whole victory tour in a few months.  He’ll surely be around for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting off the stage and to the car that’s waiting in front of the Training Center feels more dangerous than the arena.  People try to swarm us, begging for pictures, autographs, for us to touch their arm or something else ridiculous like that.  It’s so insane that we have to have an entire crew of bodyguards guide us through the crazed sea of people desperately trying to get to us.  Some do get through, and we have to force smiles for a handful of pictures.  Others reach out and graze our arms as we pass; it’s impossible to miss their screams of glee.  By the time we reach the car and pile into it as fast as we can, I’m more exhausted than I was when we started walking.  And that’s saying something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, the windows are blackened, so none of those deranged people can see inside.  Cas heaves a heavy sigh and leans back against the seat as the car drives off into the city, toward the train station.  There’s not much to say, nothing that would feel right in this peaceful silence, so I close my eyes and refuse to open them again until the car stops moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The train station has been closed off to the public.  For that, I can’t be more relieved and grateful.  The sleek train sits waiting for us, engine gently purring, doors open and ready to take us home.  I’m chomping at the bit to get inside and start the long-awaited journey, but there are still a few things left to take care of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby and Rowena climb out of another car that pulls up right behind ours.  Bobby, of course, will be going home with us, but Rowena is just going to accompany us.  The escorts always travel back with their victors.  Something about being courteous and professional, but in all honesty, I’m glad she’s coming with us, regardless if she’s being forced to or not.  I’m not ready to say goodbye to her just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley and Meg arrive next.  All there’s time for is another round of thankful embraces.  We’ll see them again soon, too, when the victory tour creeps closer.  Both of them are probably sick of hearing Cas and me thank them for everything they did for us, but I’m not sure if words will ever express how grateful we really feel.  So I suppose telling them over and over will have to suffice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the four of us pile into the train, leaving Crowley and Meg standing on the platform, it’s like the entire weight of the world drops off my shoulders.  The doors slide shut, and the train begins to move, taking us away from the station in the big city.  Before I shift, though, I make sure to wave at our stylists as they slowly start to disappear from sight.  Cas doesn’t hesitate to join me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the train plunges into darkness.  As soon as we pass through the tunnel and light returns to the car, all I see when I look out the windows is the starry night sky, as bright and clear and beautiful as ever.  No more towering buildings.  No more bustling streets filled with garish people.  No more Capitol.  Just the open land beyond.  The unobstructed sky, the serene spaciousness, but this time, I know it isn’t artificial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re going home.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Chapter 36</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A lavish meal has been set up for us in the diner car, but the last thing I want to do is eat.  My stomach is still churning, fighting to keep the food I ate prior to the interview settled.  Maybe later, if I’m feeling up for it, I’ll grab a snack.  Now all I want is to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable.  It must be well past midnight, and we won’t reach District 9 until midmorning, depending.  There’s a cozy pair of pajamas calling my name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas tells me he’s going to shower and get changed, then plants a soft kiss on my cheek before disappearing down the dimly lit corridor.  I follow closely behind, but if I remember correctly, my room is before his.  I duck inside when I think I’ve reached the right place and am relieved to realize my memory served.  The room looks untouched, just like I left it all those weeks ago.  It’s so surreal to be back.  It’s baffling to think about how little time has passed since I last set foot in this place, especially when to me, it feels like years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being alone in this dark, silent room when the only outside noise is the muted humming of the train is rather unnerving, despite knowing everything is finally safe and secure.  We’re traveling farther and farther from the Capitol with every passing second, and that just means we’re that much closer to home.  All the same, it’s like I can still hear the flashing of the cameras, the thunderous roaring of the crowd, the feeling of their fingertips grazing my arm, and it’s not going away.  I can’t shake it, no matter how badly I want to, no matter how much I tell myself that no one can get to me on this train.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to distract myself with a shower.  Maybe, alongside the traces of makeup, I can wash off the threatening feeling of everyone watching me like a caged animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I leave my shiny new crown and my silver locket on the bedside table before heading to the bathroom.  The panels aren’t nearly as fancy as the ones in the Training Center, but it gets the job done.  I stand underneath the steaming hot jets of water until I feel relaxed enough to step out.  I dry my skin, my hair, then stumble into a pair of fleecy pajamas, wondering with frustration why I’m not as elated as I should be.  I’ll be home in less than twelve hours.  This is what I’ve been dreaming about for weeks, but now that it’s happening for real, I’m just numb.  No happiness.  No sadness.  There’s just nothing, and I can’t figure out why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m hoping it’s exhaustion.  That interview was long and draining.  Maybe I’ll feel better if I sleep.  It’s late, anyway.  There’s nothing to do except eat, wallow in misery, or try to get some rest.  I’ve already ruled out the first option, and I’d rather not dwell on the events that make me sick to my stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trying to sleep it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wander to the bathroom again to rinse my flushed face with cold water.  The room is so dark that I can’t see myself in the mirror, but part of me doesn’t even want to.  I draw a deep breath to soothe my frayed nerves, to soften the ache in my chest, and bring a handful of the icy cold water to my hot skin.  The temperature is jarring but also rather calming.  I keep splashing my face until it starts to prickle, until I feel like it’s enough to keep the gnawing stress at bay, at least for a short while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I reach to turn off the faucet, but I reel back when I see my hands are covered in blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t stop the terrified yelp from slipping past my lips.  My heart pounds, adrenaline surges.  I stumble forward and stick my hands under the water as fast as I can, desperately trying to rinse them off, desperately trying to get rid of the crimson blood caking my skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when I blink, my hands are clean.  The blood is gone, like it wasn’t even there in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I force myself to turn the faucet handle.  My hands are trembling so violently that I can barely get a grip on it.  I can’t breathe.  It hurts to even try.  And there’s such a shrill ringing in my ears that I don’t hear the frantic footsteps until I look over and see Cas hurrying into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face is alight with worry.  “What happened?”  he asks, stumbling to a stop in the doorway, clad in pajamas similar to my own.  His hair is still damp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance down at my hands—clean as a whistle—then back at him.  I don’t know how to answer him.  How do I tell him my hands were bloody one second and perfectly spotless the next?  He already looks concerned enough.  I don’t want to scare him even more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,”  I manage to say, but it’s impossible to hide the tremor in my voice, the breathlessness of my tone.  I grab one of the towels hanging from its rack to scrub my hands and pat my face dry.  “I, I just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t lie to him.  He knows something happened.  He’s gazing at me with those big bright blue eyes, the ones that are glimmering with disquiet.  The simple act of meeting his stare when I know it had to have been his blood I saw covering my hands makes my insides twist into knots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shuddering sigh rattles my shoulders.  I drop the towel and move to him, close my eyes, lean my forehead against his, let my hand rest on his lower abdomen, right where his wound was.  I try to take solace in the fact that I don’t feel any hot blood oozing through his shirt, but it’s not enough.  I don’t think it will ever be enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Goosebumps raise on my arms when Cas shifts, ever so slightly, so that his lips are just grazing mine.  He lays both of his hands atop my own.  “There’s not even a scar,”  he says softly, barely above a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t explain why his words knock all the air out of my lungs.  I open my eyes as he lets go of my hand and takes a step back.  Slowly, his forlorn gaze drifting away from me, he lifts the bottom of his shirt and shows me what he meant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The skin on his abdomen is so smooth and unmarked that for a long while, all I can do is stare in shock, in disbelief.  He’s right.  Not a single scar remains.  Nothing that alludes to how slashed and mangled his skin was, how much blood came pouring out from that gaping laceration.  I could understand how the doctors were able to fix my injuries and hide my scars, but how they completely erased what was most definitely a fatal wound is beyond me.  I don’t even know what to say.  The ability to speak has abandoned me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, it hasn’t abandoned Cas.  “I didn’t remember anything after they announced that we won,”  he goes on, letting his shirt fall back down, covering his miraculously healed stomach once more.  “Watching that video was difficult, to say the least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a feeble smile pulling on the corners of his mouth, but he can’t conceal the pain shining behind his eyes.  So all of my screams, my desperate pleas, me calling him baby...He didn’t remember any of it.  And the way he had to find out what happened was through a stupid video highlighting our anguish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t figure out what I’m feeling.  There are so many overwhelming emotions rampaging around inside of me.  All I know is that when I look at him, and the misery clouding his expression, the guilt that claws at my aching heart is too much to bear.  “I’m so sorry, Cas,”  is all I manage to choke out.  Every word burns in my tight throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’ brows furrow in confusion now.  “For what?”  he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For not getting to you fast enough.”  I can’t meet his gaze.  I might burst into tears, tears that I’ve been trying so hard to suppress, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up.  “I shouldn’t have charged in there and left you alone.  I just thought that maybe…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My voice breaks, and I falter.  I force myself to stare at the floor, to avoid locking eyes with Cas, but it’s futile.  The sound of his gentle voice is enough to make my vision go blurry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault, Dean,”  he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it is.”  This time, when I look up, there’s nothing I can do to stop the tear from trickling down my cheek.  “You almost died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perplexity mingles with the flood of overpowering feelings inside of me when a small smile dances on Cas’ lips.  “But I didn’t,”  he says quietly, stepping closer to me, taking my hand in his.  “Look, let’s not brood over it.  I’m better.  Everything’s okay now.  That’s what matters, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know he’s right.  He always seems to be.  I just wish that made the lingering pain easier to deal with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, all I can do is nod in response.  I’m afraid that if I try to talk again, nothing will come out except a broken squeak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.”  Cas lets go of a trembling sigh, gives my hand a light squeeze.  “You look exhausted.  You should try to get some sleep.  We both should.  It’s been a long day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, despite how fatigued I am, I have a funny feeling I won’t even be able to close my eyes, let alone get the sleep I need.  It’s disheartening.  All I want to do is forget about everything for a little while, but I don’t think I’ll be given that luxury.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas seems to pick up on my torment.  His movements slow, and his touch tender, he releases my hand to rest his on my cheek.  “Do you want me to stay with you?”  he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please,"</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I plead without even thinking.  There’s nothing I want more than for him to stay with me.  I almost lost him too many times to count.  I’m so scared of letting that happen ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas nods, so subtly that I nearly miss it.  “All right,”  he murmurs.  For a moment, he doesn't move, and neither do I, but then he leans forward and presses a soft, lasting kiss to my lips.  It takes a long time for him to eventually draw back; the feeling of his lips still tingles on my own.  “I need to grab something out of my room, and then I’ll be back, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I nod, too, Cas gently rubs my cheek with the pad of his thumb.  It’s such a simple gesture, but it sends a faint wave of reassurance coursing through my blood.  I actually manage a smile as he backs away to leave the room.  I find myself watching him go until he disappears behind the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when the dread crashes down on me in full force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s irrational.  I know it is.  But I can’t stop it.  Can’t stop my mind from obsessing over it.  Can’t stop my cold body from shuddering with fear at the mere thought of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can’t stop myself from being plagued by Cas’ reactions to that highlights video.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He talked about watching the scenarios he didn’t remember but was definitely part of.  That’s one thing.  But what about the scenarios he wasn’t present for?  What about the feast?  The place where I, though unintentionally, very brutally murdered the boys from District 1?  What about the final battle?  The place where I bashed someone’s skull in with a rock?  I saw his reactions.  He was horrified by the entire feast, but especially when he watched me kill those two boys.  And he looked shocked when I did what I did to Gadge.  I told him what happened after the feast, and I’m sure he assumed what happened during the final battle, but telling is nothing compared to actually witnessing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if he thinks I’m a monster?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach churns.  My throat tightens, and I choke on a feeble sob.  In the arena, he told me he didn’t care what I did.  He was just glad that I was okay.  But after seeing the extent of my actions?  After seeing how harshly I killed three other people?  What if he sees me differently now?  Just thinking about it is enough to make me want to break down and cry my eyes out.  I’ve been teetering on the edge for hours, and I’m afraid this might just do me in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m a murderer.  Plain and simple.  I know that, and I know I had to do it to survive, but was there a way to do it less viciously?  Was there a way to preserve the benign relationship I have with Cas?  We were good.  And I’d like to think we still are.  He wasn’t treating me any differently just a moment ago, but I can’t control my irrationality.  I’m not the same person anymore.  Neither is he.  Not after everything we went through.  And the thought of those traumatic events slowly but surely tearing us and what we had before the Games apart makes me so sick that I have to stagger to the toilet and collapse to my knees over the bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing comes out.  I’m just stuck with nausea so strong and so overwhelming that it’s making my vision spin in violent circles.  I grab the edge of the sink with trembling hands and pull myself to my unsteady feet.  I don’t want to be in this dim bathroom anymore.  I want to lie down, bury my face in the pillows, make everything in this world go away for a while.  I don’t want to be awake and thinking about all the horrible things I did in the arena, all the horrible things I was forced to be a part of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, of course, when I leave the bathroom and lumber to the side of my bed, Cas comes back.  Just looking at him forces all those paralyzing thoughts back into my whirling head, and they’re back with a vengeance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s wearing his silver locket.  That’s what he must’ve gone to get.  It glistens in the moonlight pouring in through the small window, reflects in his bright blue eyes as he meets my gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t take this anymore.  I have to ask him.  I have to know if he feels what I’m terrified to think he does, no matter how frightening opening my mouth is.  “Listen, Cas, about what happened at the feast, and with Gadge…”  My frail voice already trails off when I see the caring concern lighting up his face.  I draw a shaky breath and force myself to continue.  “I saw how you reacted when we watched that video.  When you saw what I did to them.  And…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m stumbling over my words.  Each one brings me closer and closer to the brink of a total breakdown.  I can feel it in my throat, how strained and strangled I sound.  And it doesn’t help when Cas tilts his head, flashes me a puzzled frown, starts inching toward me until he’s right in front of me.  I don’t know if I can do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to.  I know I have to.  Thinking about us drifting apart is far more painful than talking to him now, though that realization does nothing to stop my desperate voice from shattering the more I speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m worried you’re scared of me.  I’m worried you think I’m a monster for what I did, and I can’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whimper cuts me off, completely silences me.  I drop my stare to the floor, try to compose myself, before I go over the edge and can’t come back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would you think that?”  I hear Cas ask, but there’s no bite in his tone.  He’s talking so softly that he’s nearly drowned out by the humming of the train.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I killed three other kids,”  I tell him, weakly.  “I know you said you didn’t care what I did, but then when we watched that video and I saw how shocked you were...I can’t stop thinking about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brief silence that follows eats me up inside.  It’s suffocating.  I don’t dare to lift my gaze and look at Cas, either.  He’s not saying anything.  That must mean it’s true.  My fears are true, and he’s—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, for starters, the fact that you’re upset about it tells me you’re not a bad person,”  he murmurs.  “Bad people don’t care if they’re bad.  You care.  That means you’re good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although his comforting words do manage to ease some of my torturous anxiety—and for that, I’m grateful—he still hasn’t addressed my main concern, the one that’s like needles jabbing at my heart.  I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t do anything to help me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I flinch when Cas gently grabs my chin.  He lifts my head so I have to meet his eyes, and I freeze up.  “I’m not afraid of you, Dean,”  he says, “and you’re not a monster, either.  Far from it, actually.  You’re still the same person in my eyes.  You’re kind.  You’re caring, and funny, and always know how to put a smile on people’s faces.  And a little damaged, of course, but aren’t we all?  That doesn’t change the way I feel about you, and I don’t think anything ever will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m surprised only a few tears spill onto my cheeks when I blink.  With the unbearable tightness in my chest, and the way the meaning of Cas’ tender words sink into my overwrought brain, I thought for sure I’d spiral into a fit of violent sobs.  And right now, I can’t decide which of the two I’d prefer.  All I know is that the amount of endearment and attachment I have for the boy who saved my life in more ways than one is too great to even express.  Truly, I don’t know what I would do without him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hold onto his wrist as I let myself relax and lean my forehead against his.  His fingertips trace my jawline, slowly, delicately, like a soft feather tickling my skin.  The heavy weight on my chest starts to lessen when I close my eyes and focus on his steady breathing, his warm touch, the serenity of his presence.  My home away from home.  I wish we could stay like this forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the panic begins to subside and my rationality takes control of me once more, I can’t help but feel guilty.  “I’m sorry,”  I say, drawing another shuddering breath.  “I’m being selfish.  You went through so many horrible things, too.  And when Caesar asked about your brother—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,”  Cas says, interrupting me, but his tone is far from curt.  “We’re here for each other.  I have your back when you’re down, and you have mine.  I’m not gonna leave you high and dry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart aches—he always seems to know what to say—but still, there’s no suppressing a frail smile.  “Neither will I.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I thought, with enough luck, that would put an end to my distress and fears for good.  Or, at least for the night, anyway, but there always has to be something else.  It’s not quite as upsetting as the previous thoughts that stirred up a disaster in my head, but it still makes my insides twist up and tie themselves into nauseating knots, and I know it won’t go away unless I acknowledge it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A glint of confusion passes through Cas’ gaze when I lean back, but I need to look at him.  I’m hoping his eyes will keep another round of irrationality at bay.  “What are we supposed to do?”  I ask him, voice wavering.  “I know we’re going home, and we’ll find things to keep ourselves busy, but I’m worried it won’t be enough.  I can’t get those things out of my head.  They keep replaying, no matter what I do, and then it’s like I’m there all over again.  I can’t stop it.  It’s really scaring me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Cas is silent, his stare piercing right through me and glimmering with an emotion I can’t quite discern.  Pain, sympathy, compassion, a complete muddle of feelings, and I think I’m experiencing the exact same thing on the inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,”  he eventually murmurs, rubbing my cheek with his thumb.  “It’s scaring me, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if it keeps getting worse?”  The panic is building again.  My heartbeat quickens.  “What if it never goes away?  I’m so scared it’s going to affect us more than we think, and I don’t know how to deal with it.  I don’t know what to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t realize how shallow my breaths have become until my chest starts to burn, until I hear Cas heave an unsteady sigh.  With a faint smile, one that just barely shines in his eyes, he gently brushes a loose strand of hair out of my face.  “We’ll figure something out,”  he reassures me.  “We always do, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what he told me in the arena.  Hearing him say it again, in the safety of the train that’s taking us home, hurts me more than words could ever describe.  But I think it’s in a good way.  Whatever way, it makes tears burn in my eyes as I hold his face and press my lips to his like my life depends on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me closer.  The heat radiating off him, the softness of his lips, makes my stomach do somersaults.  It’s almost strange not tasting sweat and blood when I kiss him, but I suppose that’s just another blissful reminder that we’re no longer stuck in the arena, fighting for our lives and desperately trying to protect one another from harm.  No, that place of nightmares is behind us now.  Although its memory will always remain, haunting us with the trauma we faced, we still have each other, and nothing is going to change that.  We’re much stronger together.  If we endured the arena, then we can endure what comes next.  We have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’ve been a team since the beginning, and we’ll be a team until the very end.  That still holds true today.  Forever and always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas is the first to draw back, slowly.  I can’t ignore the wave of disappointment that washes over me.  I want nothing more than to kiss him all night, until the sun comes up and we’re both gasping for air, but gazing at him as he delicately twirls his finger around a lock of my hair makes me realize just how tired he looks.  I’m sure I’m just as bad, if not worse.  He was right when he brought it up a while ago.  We really should try to sleep before we get back home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks like he wants to say something else, like something is on his mind.  His lips are ever so slightly parted as his eyes lock with mine.  I can see the uncertainty, the havering, glinting in his gaze.  I can’t quite explain why my throat tightens when I wonder what he’s clearly debating about saying to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But instead of following through, he takes a deep breath, shaking off that expression of doubt, and asks, “Do you want to lie down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dismay is fleeting but still dispiriting, although I try to brush it off as fast as I can.  Maybe that’s all he wanted to say.  Maybe I saw dubiety when it never existed.  He’s fatigued, as am I.  Maybe he’s just so tired that it made me mistake sleepiness for uncertainty.  I’m sure that’s all it was.  We’ve been put through the ringer time and time again, and now that we can finally rest without fearing for our lives, I don’t want to delay it any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So all it takes is a nod from me.  I’m suddenly so drained and lethargic that I can practically hear the silken blankets calling my name.  Cas crawls in first; I follow suit.  Before he even has a chance to say anything, I nestle up beside him, snake my arm around his abdomen, hold him close to me.  My heart flutters when I hear him let out a soft chuckle.  I can feel the vibrations of his voice as I lay my head on his chest.  It’s nice.  It’s so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be home soon,”  Cas says.  I can almost hear the smile in his quiet voice.  “Then we can hug our little brothers, and our parents, and everything will start to fall into place.  I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about seeing Sam and my parents again—even little Gabriel—after everything that happened makes a contented grin curl onto my lips.  I wonder if they’re going to be able to sleep tonight knowing we’ll be at the train station in the morning.  It’s been so unbelievably long since we’ve seen each other.  Will </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>even be able to sleep?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, I will.  Cas wraps his arm around my shoulders, and now he’s playing with my hair.  That, combined with the rhythmic thumping of his heart against my ear and the gentle rise and fall of his chest, lulls me into a state of drowsiness.  My eyelids grow heavy.  I would probably go out in an instant if the sound of Cas’ voice didn’t keep me awake for a moment longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By the way,”  he begins, a bit hesitantly, but I can still hear his smile, “I know the majority of that video was awful, but...I liked it when you called me baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I beam against his chest as the exhaustion finally takes over me, and I fall asleep listening to his tender laugh and breathing in the soothing vanilla aroma of his body.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Chapter 37</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Last chapter :( It's so bittersweet to reach the end of a story, isn't it?</p><p>BUT, please check back in tomorrow for a very big surprise and the final notes update!  I hope you'll be there because I really don't want you to miss it :)</p><p>That being said, I sincerely hope you enjoy the last chapter &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sound of rapid knocking startles me awake.  My heart leaps up to my throat as my eyelids snap open.  For a fleeting moment, I start to reach for something to defend myself with, but I quickly realize there’s no need to when I hear Rowena’s eager voice coming from the other side of the door.  Part of me is still in the arena, apparently.  I can’t seem to shake that lingering dread.</p><p>“Up, up, up!”  our escort chirps, muffled by the walls of the room that’s flooded with bright morning sunlight.  “We’ll be at the train station in less than thirty minutes!”</p><p>What little adrenaline that began to subside when I realized I was safe and sound instantly makes a return, this time much stronger than before.  I push myself upright.  I think I’ve stopped breathing.  Only thirty minutes until we’re back in District 9.  Only thirty minutes until we can see our families again.  Only thirty minutes to prepare for what comes next, and I’m struggling to decide if I’m beyond ready or wildly unprepared.</p><p>The mattress shifts beneath me as Rowena’s footsteps start to fade away, and I glance over and see Cas sitting up.  One eye is more open than the other.  His dark hair is a ruffled mess, and he tries to suppress a yawn but fails miserably as he turns to meet my gaze.  I find myself completely enraptured by how endearing he looks.</p><p>“Well,”  he says with a sleepy smile, one that makes butterflies flutter in my stomach.  “Today’s the day.  Are you ready?”</p><p>But as the reality of the situation begins to fully sink in, I realize just how conflicted I feel.  “I’m not sure,”  I admit to him.  I’m ready to see my family.  I’m ready to be home and far away from the Capitol.  But am I ready to live a relatively normal life again after everything that happened miles behind us?  That I’m unsure of, and it’s unsettling me.</p><p>A small surge of relief courses through me when Cas nods his head, his shoulders heaving with a sigh.  “Me too.”</p><p>At least I’m not alone in that regard.</p><p>Cas goes to his room to change out of his pajamas.  These thirty minutes are bound to fly by, so I make haste to change into something presentable.  I’m in the middle of rinsing off my blotchy face when Cas returns.  Thankfully, the cold water evens out the color of my skin, little by little, but then I wonder if it’s even worth it.  There’s no doubt I’ll be crying at the train station again when we’re reunited with our families.  Still, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to start with a clean slate.</p><p>I comb out the knots in my hair.  While Cas combs his, I return to the bedside table and grab my silver locket.  There’s no way I’m leaving this train without it.  I’m just clipping it around my neck when there’s another knock on the door.</p><p>“Only a few more minutes until we’re back home,”  Bobby says, letting himself into the room.  I don’t mind, though.  After all the effort he went through to help keep us alive, he can do whatever he wants.  “How are you boys feeling?”</p><p>Cas pokes his head out of the bathroom at the sound of Bobby’s voice.  He exchanges a glance with me—a rather apprehensive one—and joins us in the main room, all freshened up and ready to go.  “Nervous,”  he breathes, wringing his hands together.</p><p>“Definitely nervous,”  I agree.  My heartbeat has been steadily quickening since I woke up, and I don’t think it’s going to stop.</p><p>A faint smirk lights up Bobby’s face.  “Well, I won’t tell you not to be since I was a nervous wreck myself,”  he says, “but it’ll all be good.  You worked hard to get here.  Try to enjoy it as much as you can.”</p><p>A bout of silence falls over the three of us, only broken by the soft humming of the train.  I draw a deep breath and spare a glance out the window, my adrenaline spiking when I see the beautifully familiar hills of District 9.  The sky is so blue.  The land is so untouched, so vast.  I swear it’s been centuries since I last set foot in those rolling fields, and we’re so close to them that it makes my fingers twitch with anticipation.</p><p>I’m startled back to the present, to the quiet room, when Bobby takes a step toward us, gesturing at something behind us.  “I can hold onto your crowns and take them to the Victors’ Village, if you want,”  he says.  “That way you won’t have to worry about them during the homecoming ceremony.”</p><p>Cas and I must flash our mentor a quizzical look because he elaborates before we even have a chance to say anything.  “It won’t last long.  Don’t worry,”  he reassures us.  “And you don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to.  All you have to do is stand on the platform in front of the Justice Building while Rowena and the mayor talk about you for a few minutes.  Just congratulatory customs, so prepare for a lot of cheering.  It’s been a long time since we’ve had a victor.  Then you’ll be free to check out your new homes in the village, and that’s that.  Pretty quick and painless compared to the stuff in the Capitol, if you ask me.”</p><p>It doesn’t sound half bad.  I suppose he’s right about that.  Just another hoop we have to jump through before we finally get the chance to live in peace and quiet, or at least attempt to.  Regardless, I don’t object—neither does Cas—when Bobby takes my crown off the bedside table.  Cas’ must still be in his room.</p><p>The train starts to slow down.  No doubt we’re nearing the station, and Bobby only confirms my suspicion when he backs up, heading for the door once more.  “It’ll be fine,”  he tells us.  “Just take a deep breath, and remember to smile.”</p><p>But before he leaves, he stops in the doorway and flashes us an amiable smile of his own.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen such sincerity in his expression.  “I’m proud of you boys,”  he says, softer than I’ve ever heard.  “I hope you know that.”</p><p>It’s safe to say his comforting words manage to ease some of the worry gnawing at my insides.</p><p>Still, there’s not much I can do to calm my rapid heartbeat when the train steadily rolls to a stop.  One quick glance out the window tells me we’ve arrived at the station.  A small flock of cameras swarms the platform, waiting to broadcast our advent to the whole country.  Much to my relief, though, there doesn’t appear to be a massive crowd of people out there, not like in the Capitol.  No, everyone is probably in the square, anticipating the start of this homecoming ceremony.  I barely have a chance to wonder where our families might be in all of this before Cas gently grabs my arm, ripping me back to the reality at hand.</p><p>“Shall we?”  he asks.</p><p>We don’t have any other choice.  Unless we want to stay on this train forever, of course, but despite how painfully nervous I am, that’s the last thing I want to do.  We’re finally home.  This is the moment we’ve been waiting for, the moment we fought so hard to obtain.  Why wait any longer?</p><p>With a deep, shuddering sigh, hoping to ready myself for what’s to come, I nod my head.  “We shall.”</p><p>The second my foot hits the ground outside the train, the ground that belongs to District 9, the crushing weight lifts from my shoulders.  It’s like I can breathe properly again for the first time in days.  It’s like I can breathe freely.  I take in the air, the hot but blissfully fresh and clean air, and my lungs stop burning.  In the distance, I hear birds.  Real birds.  Natural birds that live here, untouched by humanity, not manufactured by Gamemakers.  Their carefree singing is so charming that for a moment, I have to close my eyes, relish the sound of their songs, feel the warm breeze on my skin, let all of the wonderful sensations of home really begin to sink in.</p><p>If it weren’t for Cas’ soft, breathy chuckle, I would probably be standing there with my eyes closed for hours, just listening to those familiar sounds that I missed so dearly.  I look over and see his delighted face, his borderline disbelieving expression, and when his gaze locks with mine, I notice his eyes are glistening with tears.  Happy tears.  And I know they’re happy tears because if there weren’t cameras trained on us, I would be kissing the ground and hugging him and laughing and crying because we’re <em> home. </em>  It’s almost too overwhelming to handle.</p><p>I rest my hand on the small of Cas’ back as we make our way toward the end of the station.  The cameras follow us, although they do keep their distance now.  I’m glad.  My legs are wobbling so much that I’m afraid I might trip and stumble to the pavement.  That would be embarrassing.</p><p>We’ve only made it halfway to the exit when I hear his voice.  The voice I feared I would never hear again.  The voice so small and so sweet that the instant I hear it, I freeze in place, worried it’s some cruel hallucination meant to toy with me.</p><p>“Dean!”  my little brother Sam cries, and no, it’s not a hallucination, because I see him running toward me, arms outstretched and face slick with tears and moving as fast as his legs can carry him.</p><p>I scoop him up into my arms when he leaps at me, and this time, I don’t try to hide my elation.  I drop to my knees as Sam flings his arms around my neck and buries his face in my shoulder.  I hold him so tightly, so desperately, and he holds me tighter.  He’s trembling in my grasp; it doesn’t take long for the tears to start rolling down my cheeks.</p><p>“You came back,”  my little brother whimpers, his frail voice muffled by my shoulder.  I can feel his hot tears soaking through the fabric of my shirt.  “You did it.”</p><p>As weeks worth of stress and uncertainty finally begin to melt away, I can’t help but chuckle.  “I promised I would, didn’t I?”</p><p>But despite the lighthearted intention I had with my words, it only makes me cry harder knowing it was all worth it.  Every single second of it, from the beginning to the end.  Sam is safe.  I came back home, and I brought Cas with me, someone who shouldn’t have even been put through that catastrophe in the first place.  Not after what happened to him all those years ago.  But somehow, it all worked out, and right now, there’s no place I’d rather be.  I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.  I never want this feeling to end.</p><p>I hear someone shouting Cas’ name.  I blink the tears out of my eyes, and I see him stumbling backwards as his little brother Gabriel launches into his arms.  The two of them sink to the floor, clinging to one another like their lives depend on it, shaking and sobbing into each other’s shoulders.  I see Cas gently rocking back and forth as he cradles his sibling’s head, but most of all, I see Gabriel opening his tear-filled eyes.  When they meet mine, he doesn’t even have to say anything.  The glint in his gaze speaks volumes.  A faint smile is just forming on his lips when I give him a nod, just to let him know I understand.</p><p>All of it was worth it.</p><p>Sam loosens his grip on me when we hear approaching footsteps.  It’s my parents, and Cas’ are following closely behind.  I practically jump to my feet and collapse into my mother’s waiting arms without hesitation.  The only thing keeping me from completely crumpling to the floor in an emotional heap is her.  The way she squeezes me like she’s never going to let go.  The way she cradles my head beneath her chin, her lips pressing into my hair.  The way she soothes me, tries to calm my muffled cries, even though she’s crying herself.  Then again, I think it’s safe to say everyone is.</p><p>I feel another pair of arms wrap around my mother and me, strong but still trembling.  Without a doubt, I know I’m sandwiched between my parents, enveloped in a warm embrace that I never want to escape from.  Somewhere behind me, I hear Cas and his parents talking in garbled sobs.  I’m torn between feeling my heart swell at their reunion and absolutely bawling my eyes out when I think about everything they’ve been through.  I don’t know what to feel anymore.</p><p>I’m not sure how long we all stand there, squeezing the life out of one another, before my mother finally releases me and plants a kiss on the top of my head.  As my father clasps my shoulder, I see Sam hurrying over to Cas and throwing his arms around his middle.  Cas seems surprised at first—I notice his eyes widen—but he doesn’t hesitate to return my little brother’s embrace.</p><p>I think that’s what sparks the switch.  With Sam hugging Cas, it only takes seconds for Gabriel to run to me and knock the air out of my lungs with his tight hold.  Still, he says nothing, but it’s far from necessary.  I can feel his overwhelming gratitude in his embrace, the way he noiselessly cries into my shirt, the way he clutches the fabric like he might collapse if he doesn’t.  And I hope he knows how happy I was to help.</p><p>Waiting for me when Gabriel eventually lets me go is Cas’ mother.  There’s a smile on her tear-stained face, composed of happiness and anguish and appreciation and so many other emotions that are too mixed together to discern.  Her shaking hands cup my face, and for a while, she just looks at me, her lips quivering as more tears stream down her cheeks, and I look back.  She doesn’t need to say anything, either.  Seeing their family reunited again is more than I could have ever asked for.</p><p>With an abrupt laugh, one that’s teeming with pure relief and gratitude, she kisses my forehead and pulls me into her arms.  She’s a lot stronger than she looks.  I think she’s squeezing me tighter than my own mother, which is certainly saying something.  But it’s beyond comforting.  There’s nothing quite like a mother’s embrace.</p><p>As I turn around and accept a firm hug from Cas’ father, I see my parents sandwiching Cas in a hug of their own.  I can’t help but smile at the sight.  They kiss his head, rub his back, shower him in just as much appreciation and gratitude as his parents are with me.  The air is ripe with love and affection, and I’m not taking a second of it for granted.</p><p>The only thing important enough to break up our blissful reunion is Bobby.  He tells us that the homecoming ceremony in the square is set to start in less than thirty minutes, and we need to get moving before we’re late.  As much as I’d like to stay here, I know it would not be ideal to be late for our own ceremony.</p><p>“We’ll all be up front,”  my mother says, her eyes still glistening with tears as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.  She tells me she loves me, which, of course, prompts a whole round of everyone exchanging those words within their families.  Then Cas joins me at my side, and my hand finds its place on the small of his back as we follow Bobby out of the train station.</p><p>The moment I pass through the door and exit the station, though, I nearly collide with someone who starts at my sudden appearance.  All I catch is a glimpse of ginger hair, but that’s all it takes.  In an instant, I know it’s none other than Charlie Bradbury.</p><p>“Dean!”  my best friend exclaims when she realizes it’s me.  She looks and sounds completely breathless, almost as if she ran all the way here.  “I wanted to meet you when you got off the train, but the Peacekeepers were only allowing family and I tried to tell them that I was basically family but they wouldn’t listen so I just decided to wait out here and—”</p><p>I drag her into my arms before she has a chance to finish.  She stops talking immediately, letting go of a trembling sigh, and tightens her own arms around me.  I can feel her shaking as she burrows into my shoulder.</p><p>“I knew you could do it,”  she whispers, her voice dangerously close to breaking.  It takes every last bit of strength I have in me to keep another round of tears at bay.  “I always knew you could.”</p><p>I want to tell her how much I missed her, how glorious it is to see her again, to hold her in my arms again, but I can’t quite find the words to express everything I’m feeling.  Where do I even begin?  Relief of this caliber is so staggering that it can make it impossible to speak.  So all my racing mind manages to come up with is a wholehearted “I missed you so much.”</p><p>Even though I can’t see her, I know there’s a smirk on Charlie’s face.  I can hear it in her voice.  “Right back at you, Winchester.”</p><p>Then she lets me go, tears sliding down her cheeks but a bright smile still shining in her eyes, and her attention fixes on something behind me.  “Hold on,”  she tells me.  “I have to go hug my new best friend.”</p><p>Something about the way she throws her arms around and squeezes the life out of a wide-eyed Cas makes a delighted laugh bubble up in my throat.  He looks so startled, so shocked by her unexpected embrace, but it doesn’t take long for him to relax and return the gesture.  Seeing the two of them together after I told Cas in the arena that he and Charlie would be great friends makes me smile so wide that my cheeks hurt.</p><p>“Welcome to the crew, Novak,”  Charlie says, giving him a hard pat on the back.  “There’s no escape for you now.”</p><p>The playfully fearful glance Cas sends my way only elicits another laugh.  But then he grins, lets out a chuckle of his own, looks genuinely happy to be trapped in Charlie’s tight embrace.  At this rate, who knows?  Maybe they’ll be even better friends than I anticipated.  And in all honesty, I would love nothing more.</p><p>Bobby appears again, reminding us we have even less time to get to the Justice Building than before, and we have to leave Charlie by the train station.  As we turn to follow our mentor for the second time, she tells us she’ll be right down front, cheering her head off for us throughout the ceremony.  Coming from Charlie, I’ll expect nothing less.</p><p>Rowena is already waiting for us behind the Justice Building, along with the mayor.  He swiftly shakes our hands, congratulates us on our victory, thanks us for bringing pride and hope to District 9 for the first time in years.  I’m not sure how to respond to a compliment like that—and the stunned look on Cas’ face tells me he doesn’t, either—but thankfully, we don’t have to.  Rowena is gushing about how excited she is to start the ceremony, and she doesn’t waste a single second in doing so.  She’s toddling up onto the stage in front of the building before I can even fully process what the mayor said.</p><p>I faintly hear our escort welcoming the crowd and their cheers in response as I rub my eyes, desperately hoping my skin isn’t too blotchy from all the tears I shed.  Cas, as always, looks great, even with his puffy eyes, but if how hot and swollen my face feels is anything to go on, I’m sure I look like a speckled tomato.  Crowley and my prep team would probably have a cow if they saw how I looked right before a big ceremony like this.  Then Rowena’s introducing us, singing praises about us and how we’re her favorite pair of tributes in the history of the Games, and we have no choice but to take the stage with her and the mayor.</p><p>The applause and cheers we receive upon our appearance is instantaneous and near-deafening.  I’m so startled that for a moment, I freeze, panic, flashing back to the dreaded interviews in the Capitol, but that fear thankfully begins to dissolve when I recognize the familiar, friendly faces of the people of District 9.  The baker, the lovely old woman I bought bread from when we had enough money for fresh delicacies, is grinning and clapping like a proud grandmother.  The butcher, the gruff, stern man whom I seldom visited due to meat being rather expensive, is nodding his head in approval, a pleased expression adorning his hardened face.  The granary owners, the one I worked for and his associates, have their hands raised high above their heads as they applaud wildly.  Here, I know the audience.  They know me.  They care about me.  They’re not the Capitol citizens, what with their crazed fans, their faux sympathy.  Their excitement and glee is purely genuine, and seeing everyone gathered here in the square to welcome us home warms my heart so much that I’m afraid I might melt.</p><p>And of course, I can’t forget my family, standing right beside Cas’ family and Charlie.  The ones who matter the most.  The ones who care about us the most, who were at the train station the moment we got off to envelop us in their comforting embraces.  The ones who no doubt endured so much fear and stress while we were gone, trapped in the hands of the Capitol, and the ones who nearly make me burst into tears all over again when I catch them waving at us—Charlie is cheering loudly as promised—as we amble toward the center of the stage.  Cas and I wave back, but I quickly focus my attention on Rowena and the mayor before my eyes well up with tears.</p><p>Bobby was right.  The ceremony doesn’t last long, but it’s more special than I could’ve even imagined.  After Rowena finishes introducing us and saying how blessed she was to be our escorts, she hands the microphone over to the mayor.  When she brushes past us to leave the stage, she wraps us in a tight hug.  She makes no effort to dry her eyes as she totters down the steps and out of sight.</p><p>The mayor then talks about the same things he told us backstage, about how this is the first time in a very long time that District 9 has been victorious in the Games.  And the fact that this year was a Quarter Quell makes it even more incredible.  He talks about how much we inspired the district, how proud we made everyone, how grateful he is to be holding this ceremony right now, which all elicit thunderous rounds of cheers from the crowd.  He continues to congratulate us profusely, thanking us for everything we did.  By the time he starts to wrap up his heartfelt speech, I’m so close to tears again that my lips are quivering and my knees are wobbling.  I’ve really only ever heard this man recite the speech he’s required to before the reapings.  Hearing him pour his heart out because of what Cas and I did is so sweet that it’s almost upsetting me.</p><p>But, he’s not quite done yet.  There’s a pause as he lets the rambunctious crowd settle down, and then the air falls so still and silent that I can hear birds chirping in the distance.  My heartbeat quickens as he turns to us, reaching into his pockets.  What is he doing?  Bobby didn’t tell us anything about this.  The panic begins to seep back into my bloodstream before I can stop it.</p><p>“And, as a final act of congratulations,”  the mayor says, retrieving something from his pockets, “I present you with these.”</p><p>In his outstretched hands lies two golden keys, glistening in the bright sunlight.</p><p>“The keys to your new homes in the Victors’ Village.”  A proud smile dances on the mayor’s lips as he places one in Cas’ hand and one in mine.  “Welcome home, boys.  You’ve earned it.”</p><p>Okay, crying now.  Onstage.  In front of everyone.  But I don’t care anymore.  I make sure to shake the mayor’s hand—still have to be somewhat professional—before turning and throwing my arms around Cas.  My tears instantly soak into his shirt, but it’s okay, because I feel his tears soaking into my shirt, too.  The crowd loses it, cheering for us, chanting our names, even tossing streamers around as the homecoming ceremony draws to a close.  And it certainly was a wonderful ceremony.</p><p>A pair of Peacekeepers are there to guide us off the stage while the rest of them corral the wild crowd.  They’re still throwing streamers and other various party items.  With our new keys in hand, we’re told to head to the Victors’ Village and start to get settled in, which is a phrase that both excites me and makes me incredibly nervous.  The requirements are out of the way.  We’re home.  We had the homecoming ceremony.  Now comes the part that I’ve been dreading the most.</p><p>Cas must sense my nerves.  As the Peacekeepers send us on our way, he slips his hand into mine and flashes me the most reassuring smile he can muster up.  But I know he’s nervous, too.  I can see the uneasiness glimmering behind his eyes.  This is the first time in weeks that we’ve been free to do whatever we please without being toyed with like puppets on a string.  Now the strings have finally been cut, but with it almost comes a sense of helplessness.  While we’re not entirely free—no victor ever is—there’s no longer a schedule controlling our lives.  So what do we do?  How do we spend our time?  How do we start living normally again when a couple weeks ago, we were terrified we would never even leave the arena where twenty-two other boys met their ends?  It’s all so overwhelming.  I don’t know how to wrap my head around it.</p><p>But I suppose we have to start somewhere, and checking out our new houses in the Victors’ Village is as good a place as any.</p><p>It’s about a twenty minute walk from the Justice Building to the village.  I’ve never been there myself, but I know of its location, the peacefully secluded area surrounded by lush trees and colorful flowers.  When Cas and I reach the old iron gate protecting it from the rest of the district, I find myself gazing up at the once-golden metal letters spelling out <em> Victors’ Village, </em> now dark and rusted with age.  Clearly it’s been a while since anyone has had reason to clean it up.</p><p>But when we push the gate open and step into the village, its appearance is nothing like the letters would allude to.  Although the cobblestone path is cracked in places, it’s still rather intact and spans the stretch of the village.  Twelve massive houses—more like mansions, really—line the path.  Six on one side, and six on the other.  They tower so high and look so pristine and untouched that I can’t stop my jaw from dropping at the sight.  All of them are dark and silent, seeing as no one else lives here except for Bobby, but that does nothing to alter their grandeur.  I haven’t even stepped inside, and I already know that I could probably fit three of my family’s old houses into one of these mansions.  I can only imagine what waits for us inside.</p><p>There are small numbers inscribed on both of our keys, and the numbers match the ones adorning the grand columns in front of the houses.  But, since almost all of them look identical on the outside, we decide to just check out the interior of mine.  We walk along the cobblestone path, passing by a beautiful marble fountain that doesn’t appear to be active—or at least not currently—and trek up the front steps to my new home.</p><p>That sounds so surreal.  I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.</p><p>The moment I twist the key in the doorknob and Cas and I head inside, we’re greeted with a lavish foyer and an imposing granite staircase leading to the second story.  Above us, hanging from the tall ceiling, is a sparkling chandelier.  Below us is a stretch of dark hardwood floor so polished that I’m almost afraid I might slip on it.  A princely kitchen, a cozy living room with a striking brick fireplace, and a short corridor leading to another set of unexplored rooms make up the first level.  We’re completely surrounded by luxury, riches we couldn’t even begin to imagine owning a few weeks ago.  It’s no wonder the mere sight of this foyer renders me speechless, and Cas simply breathes out an impressed “whoa.”  There’s so much to take in.</p><p>The back room, at the far end of the corridor, is a posh study, filled with bookcases and plush chairs and a stationery desk and fancy windows so tall that it lights up the room with a warm glow.  Cas perks up when he sees all those books.  I remember him saying he likes to read, so he must be in hog heaven in this little library.  Maybe now that we have time, I’ll have to get back into reading, too.  Suddenly I’m giddy at the thought of us sitting in this study together, cuddled up in one of the chairs, sharing a book while it rains outside.  Yes, that sounds perfect.</p><p>There’s a small bedroom on the first floor, far fancier than any bedroom in my old house, and it’s right next to a bathroom.  Full shower, separate bathtub.  Things we never had or even really experienced before the Capitol.  And when I realize the sink has two handles, I reach out to turn them with shaking hands.  Both hot and cold water, whenever we please.  I don’t think Cas’ eyes have stopped widening since we stepped into the house, nor have I bothered to fix my ajar jaw.  There would be no point.</p><p>As we journey up the elegant staircase, Cas absentmindedly grazes the dark railing with his fingertips.  On the second story lies three more opulent bedrooms, even larger than the one downstairs, and two equally grandiose bathrooms, all with both hot and cold water.  The Capitol really spared no expense when it came to building these mansions in the Victors’ Village, huh?  Despite knowing that we’re victors and these are in fact our new homes, I still can’t help but feel too plain and poor to even be standing in this place.  It’s massive, and insanely regal.  How are we ever supposed to get accustomed to living like this when we’ve been worried about starving to death our entire lives?</p><p>Having seen the entirety of the house in all its luxurious glory, Cas and I make our way back outside and meander over to the marble fountain.  I sit on the edge of it, breathing in the fresh air, listening to the warm breeze gently rustling the leaves on the trees all around the tranquil village.  Cas takes a seat next to me, heaving a small sigh.  I don’t hesitate to intertwine our fingers and rest our hands on my leg.</p><p>I’m still struggling to comprehend everything that’s happening.  If it weren’t for Cas’ reassuring presence, the soothing pressure of his hand squeezing back against mine, I would be convinced I’m living in a dream, a different world.  Thinking about the past, all the crazy events we were part of throughout the course of a few weeks, makes my head spin with a flood of dizzying thoughts.  The reaping seems like centuries ago.  The tribute parade, the training, the interviews, the Games themselves, seem like centuries ago.  Even the Capitol feels so far away that it might as well be a figment of my imagination.  For a fleeting moment, I’m terrified that this <em> is </em>all a dream, and I’m going to wake up in my room in the Training Center, prepping to head to the arena all over again.</p><p>The chirping birds and the pleasant breeze snap me back to reality.  The reality where all of this is real, and I don’t have to fear for my life ever again.  Not like that.  No, I’m back home, gazing up at the vast cerulean sky, the towering trees.  Cas is right here with me, looking around at the rest of the unoccupied mansions, alive and well and forever going to be a huge part of my life.  Nothing is ever going to change that, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.</p><p>He must notice me staring at him.  When he turns his head and his bright blue eyes lock with mine, a faint smile tugs at his lips.  “So, what now?”  he asks.</p><p>I can’t stifle a chuckle at his words.  “Good question,”  I say.  I draw a deep breath, glancing around the hushed village.  “I’m still trying to process all of this.”</p><p>My heart skips a beat when Cas rubs his thumb along the back of my hand.  I look at him as his gaze drifts to the ground, and nothing but solace, nothing but happiness, consumes me.  It’s crazy to think about where we began and where we ended up after nearly a month of trials and tribulations.  From strangers to victors.  From district partners to real partners.  And now I can’t even imagine my life without him.  The boy from the fields.  The boy who saved me.</p><p>My boy.</p><p>His eyes sparkling, Cas lightly pats my wrist.  “Figure something out?”  he offers, his smile widening.</p><p>Our little motto.  The phrase we’ve held close during difficult times.  The phrase that never fails to put my mind at ease, no matter the circumstance, because we have each other’s backs.  He won’t leave me alone, and I won’t leave him alone.  And I know that whatever gets thrown our way from here on out, we’ll tackle it together.  As the team we’ve been since the very beginning.</p><p>My chest flutters as I lean forward to press a kiss to his forehead.  “Figure something out,”  I echo.</p><p>We always do.</p><p> </p><p>-End of Part One-</p>
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<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Final Notes + a Surprise!</h2></a>
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    <p>Congratulations!  You've reached the end of the story!  First off, I just want to thank you all profusely for taking the time to read this.  This story has 100% been my comfort story during the first half of 2020.  I probably would've gone insane without it.  I started writing it in January, finished it in May, and finished uploading the chapters here in September.  Every step of the process has brought so much happiness and joy to my life, and part of it has been all thanks to you lovely people!  So thank you so much!! (and prepare to hear that a lot throughout the course of this final update)</p><p>Seriously.  All the insane amounts of amazing comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions have absolutely blown me away.  They made me smile so much!  Especially the incredible comments.  God, the comments.  Reading your comments and your thoughts meant the world to me and more.  Y'all really made my weeks ten times better, ya know that?  I'm so so happy that you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.  You're the best and I love and appreciate you more than words can describe &lt;3</p><p>Alrighty, now that (most of) the sappy stuff is out of the way, let's talk future stories and a big surprise :)</p><p>Some of you may have heard, but. . .drum roll please. . .I'm working on a sequel for this story!!  I wasn't ready to say goodbye to this universe and our favorite boys quite yet (and neither have a lot of you guys) so why should we?  Let's keep it rolling.  Plus I had a lot of ideas for a sequel while I was writing this story, and I don't want them to go to waste.  So yeah!!  I'm very excited for a sequel, and I really hope y'all are too!! :)</p><p>That being said, it's going to be another lengthy story.  Probably even longer than this one.  So that means it's going to take me a while to write and publish.  I'm hoping shoot for late December for a publishing date (maybe January or February at the latest) but it'll really just depend on my writing moods.  I go through phases where I write 3,000+ words in one afternoon and then like 10 words in a whole week.  We'll see how it goes!  I hope you're excited nonetheless because I certainly am!!</p><p>Now I have a question for y'all.  When I get around to publishing the sequel, how would you like to be notified?  I can either add an extra chapter to the end of this story, or if you don't want to stay subscribed to this story, you can just subscribe to my account instead (I feel like a cringy YouTuber for saying that I'm so sorry).  That way you'll know when I publish a new story, whether it be the sequel or another short lil one I'm working on :)</p><p>Let me know in the comments which one you prefer!  I don't really want to tack on an extra chapter to this story in a few months, but I'll leave that up to you!  Whatever is the easiest for you &lt;3</p><p>Side note for future readers: If you're reading this when the sequel has been published, there'll be a link somewhere in this chapter!  Probably at the beginning so it grabs your attention.  We'll see when the time comes :)</p><p>So yeah!  I think that about wraps it up.  Let me know if you want to stay subscribed to this story so I can publish a sequel notification chapter in the future, or if you just want to subscribe to my account so you get notified whenever I publish something new.  Or if you're not interested in a sequel and don't want to do either, then no biggie!  You do you :)</p><p>Okay I'm big dumb.  I just remembered that creating a series is an option and you can subscribe to a series instead of individual stories or an account.  So there's another option LMAO.  I could file this story under a series instead since it's going to be one in the end anyway.  Sheesh I apologize if my rambling is too confusing.  I'm still a bit of a newbie when it comes to the functions of AO3.</p><p>OR if you just want to check back in from time to time and skip the subscriptions altogether, that's totally cool too!  Do whatever's easiest for you!  I'm not here to pressure you into doing anything.  I'm just here to entertain with my words :)</p><p>If you want to contact me outside of AO3 to chat or become friends (I'm in need of social interaction) then my Instagram account is starlitshadowsx!</p><p>Once again, thank you all so SO much for reading Promises of a Sacrificial Lamb!  I'm beyond happy that so many of you enjoyed this journey.  I definitely did.  And what a journey it was indeed.  Thank you for everything.  Y'all deserve the world &lt;3</p><p>Until next time!  And may we meet again in the next story I write &lt;3</p>
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